The Sandglass
by Nenya Entwhistle
Summary: Predestined life and love is a hard fate to swallow.
1. Chapter One

**THE SANDGLASS  
**By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra, Lesameschelle, and Irishgirl12000.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?_

_

* * *

August 16, 2005 (Harry is 25)_

**Harry:** The world is in chaos. Spells are flying, singing through the air while wizards and witches fall, crippled or dying. I stand in the middle of all this, countering and cursing, and yet still seeing every bit of destruction and desecration around me. My sense of time has simultaneously slowed and sped up. It no longer means anything. Time is but time. Who cares when love transcends it?

"Potter, watch your back!" Moody yells when he sends a _Disarming Spell_ at the wizard who was about to cast a _Cruciatus Curse_ on me. I nod at him almost imperceptibly, something unnoticeable unless you're an Auror trained by him. He inclines his head once grimly before turning his attention to the others that need help.

I see the pain and suffering all around us, and I know we haven't done enough to stop it. It has been ten years of fighting and bloodshed, and still this war goes on with the loss of more and more promising youths. How many newly initiated Aurors are lost every time we step into the battlefield? Hundreds, at least. The numbers have blurred in my mind, much as time has. Only numbers are important. They're our dead.

We cannot forget them.

* * *

_September 17, 1998 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 38)_

**Severus:** "Potter," I sneer.

"Snape," he says and inclines his head. "May I come in?"

This politeness is unlike him. I narrow my eyes slightly, not enough that the witless Gryffindor that he is would notice. There is something different about him but I cannot pinpoint what it is. His manners have improved, and I have heard Auror training does teach respect for elders. Obviously Potter has learned.

I step aside and allow him to enter, though he hesitates before doing so. It's easy to see he dislikes this house, but then Grimmauld Place _is_ detestable. It is a pity that it's one of the few remaining unplottable places. If it wasn't, we would not be here.

"How are things at Hogwarts?" Potter asks in an attempt to break the silence.

Why he is trying to make small talk with me, I have not the faintest clue. I could do without his inane endeavor, though. His voice grates on my ears, creating noise I would rather not be forced to listen to. If I must work with the dratted idiot, at least let him be silent!

"Snape, how—"

"Must you speak?"

Potter looks like a gaping fish with his mouth hanging open, until he finally realizes that he ought to shut it. I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and pointedly start walking away. Of course, Potter being who he is, doesn't understand. He follows along like a good little godson of a mutt. I grit my teeth and walk faster, hoping to rid myself of his presence. Alas, no luck.

At least he doesn't speak. Potter may have gotten the point. Too bad the silence will only last until we reach the meeting place, which winds through many long hallways and up several staircases. The pathway is deliberately tricky and to become lost would be perilous like the Cretean labyrinth—another tactic of Albus' to safeguard the Order. It will certainly confound those who try to breach the Headquarters.

I hear Potter's footsteps behind me, not as close as they once were but close enough that I know he won't get lost. At the real entrance I stop and wait for him. "I hope you realize," I snap, "that you should have paid attention to the path we took. It is complicated for a reason. You—"

"It's for security, Albus already told me," Potter answers in a neutral voice, though he was much more like himself in cutting me off. Such impertinence. "You took three rights, then a left, then two rights, then two lefts, then one right. We went up three different staircases, two flights for one, one for the next, and three for the last." He pauses and actually looks into my eyes. "Is that right, Snape?"

Moody has sharpened his perception; I am mildly impressed and annoyed. I purse my lips briefly then snarl, "I would keep paying attention, Potter. Albus' sense of security only gets stranger."

Potter only nods and continues to watch carefully when I mutter the complicated unlocking charm, which then opens the door to a portrait of Fawkes. The painted phoenix, newly made for this purpose, flies around the frame aimlessly until he catches sight of us. He then flutters to his perch—an elegant beech—lands and aims his discerning golden eyes at us.

_Password?_ Fawkes requests.

"_Judica fidelitatem meum."_

"Judge my loyalty," Potter whispers from behind my back. "How appropriate for Albus."

His Latin has also improved, I note grudgingly. Auror training has done him some good, though there are many things that Potter needs to know that he won't learn there. The limited Dark Arts they teach the trainees is pitiful compared to the knowledge the Death Eaters wield. If the Aurors expect to win this war, they can't afford to be squeamish about a little darkness. They need to embrace it.

"Snape," Potter calls, jerking me out of my thoughts, "are you coming?"

I feel some heat underneath my cheeks, not enough to change the sallow pallor of my skin, but more of a reaction than I should have as a spy. I curl my lips back into a sneer, but hold back my tongue. After all, it would hardly be nice for me to snap at him when he was only trying to inform me the entrance to the final stairway has opened.

However, I am not nice. "I would watch your step if I were you, Potter. The stairs, like those at Hogwarts, have a tendency to change."

* * *

_July 31, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** The walls are white, crisp and clean. I don't know what I expected the Department of Mysteries to look like during the day, but not like this—not so clinical and clear. It feels pure and light, not dark or mystifying like it should.

My guide, a white-hooded Unspeakable, gestures for me to halt in front of the last door at the end of this long corridor. "Knock and wait to be told to enter," he instructs and then bows. "Good day."

I watch him walk away and shimmer out of existence. It's as if I blinked and he is gone. This place, this level is strange and disorienting, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable. For some inexplicable reason, it reminds me of Hogwarts. It gives me the same feeling, the same comfort. It's as if I belong here.

I knock and wait for I don't know how long. I know it's more than a moment before a strong, sharp voice calls out, "Please come in, Mr. Potter."

My hand reaches for the doorknob, but it opens before I can touch it. The room, unlike the hallway, is a dark, slate gray. There is a darkness to this room, a forbidden feeling. I walk in and the door slams shut behind me.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimmer lighting. But when they do adapt, I see a tall, white-cloaked wizard standing in the middle of a large triangle with his back facing me. "Sir?" I say.

"Do you know what it is I am standing in?"

I begin to shake my head, but realize that he cannot see me. "A triangle, sir?"

"Are you sure?"

No, I'm not. The triangle, when I look at it more carefully, is distinctly unusual. The outline has been engraved into the marble floor and within the outline there seems to be an ancient script written in silver. I have no idea what it says, but it must be important.

"Shall I take your silence for a no?"

"Yes, sir."

The man turns around, his face hidden by his hood. It should remind me of Death Eaters, but the white is such a contrast against the black that no ominous feelings come from him. "You are not as arrogant as _The Daily Prophet _has reported, nor as sure as a hero should be," he comments.

I feel his eyes on me, but I cannot see them within the darkness and I am unnerved. I lower my eyes back to the triangle, furiously studying the strange markings, trying to discern what language they might be in. But no matter how hard I squint, they do not make any sense to me.

"The markings are in a language no longer known to common people," the Unspeakable says. "But it has not been forgotten, merely kept hidden. This place, this gray space is different from the rest of the whiteness that surrounds it, is it not?"

I nod slowly. "Yes."

"The markings say this: _Ichi nga khetei iso ghei iruwe dei ngagaso qwei mortento qi tei."_ My eyes follow him while he walks the borders of the triangle, chanting in the hypnotic, unknown, and guttural language. He stops at a point no different from the others. "In a language known to you, it would read: _Time is an unknown; it is a past, a present, and a future all at once._" His foot, clad in a white boot, taps the gold point. "Each angle represents one period, connected as they are into one shape, a shape wizards call _tempus temporis._"

"But why am I here?" I ask abruptly, looking directly at the cloaked wizard. "I don't understand why I was brought here. I'm not an Unspeakable, this doesn't concern me, I'm going to be—"

"An Auror, yes, I realize that."

"Who are you?" I demand, stepping toward him. "How do you know?"

"I am the Head of the Unspeakables," the wizard declares. "I know everything concerning those that are under me, those that are like me."

"But I am not under you nor am I like you!"

"Oh, but you are, Mr. Potter," he says. "There are some that are made into Unspeakables, but then there are those, like you and I, who are destined to be Unspeakables before birth. And you are one of the rarest. You have a power the Dark Lord knows not."

I flinch when I hear him say that. How does he know what the prophecy says? Not even the Unspeakable charged with watching the prophecy orb is supposed to know about it, unless…

"You opened the prophecy," I accuse. "You were supposed to guard it, not read it!"

"Mr. Potter," he begins in a deceptively airy tone, "I am your Unspeakable, and I know everything that regards you. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you more thoroughly than even your parents could if they were still alive. Do you understand?"

I know what Unspeakables are, guardians—I've heard—of people, things, and places. "If you are my Unspeakable, where were you that night when my parents were murdered?"

"I am only your Unspeakable, not theirs. I was there to protect you from Voldemort, to save your timeline so that you could save another's. You are a trigger person. Yet as important as you are, there is someone whose fate is even more tied to the future of this world than yours. This person is your sole assignment as an Unspeakable. Do you understand? What you do or do not do will determine whether this world can be saved from a reign of infinite darkness."

I should crash to my knees with the weight of the information he has told me. I still don't understand why I'm special, why I was saved and my parents weren't. But everything starts to makes more sense. I always thought it a bit extraordinary that a mother's love could save a child's life from certain death. It makes more sense if there are mysterious powers at work, magical forces like that of an Unspeakable's.

"Where were my parents' Unspeakables then?" I ask sharply. "Why did they not do anything to save them when you saved me?"

"Not everyone has an Unspeakable. We are only here to guide trigger people who would otherwise become lost and misguided. In your case, you are needed to help your pre-assigned life case along with the path he should take. He is a difficult one, and your part in his life has already been recorded and observed. This is the file," he says, taking out a tiny, thin rectangle from his cloak's pocket. "It only has vague details, but enough for you to know what you must do."

I'm thinking fast, but I still feel like I'm falling behind. It's just too much at once. "But I am not an Unspeakable," I say through gritted teeth. "I will be an Auror when I'm done with training."

My Unspeakable laughs softly. "Harry," he says, "it doesn't matter what else you might be, but you have and always will be an Unspeakable." He tosses the file at me and I catch it instinctively, a leftover reaction from my Quidditch days. "Besides, you don't have much time."

"What do you mean?" I begin and then feel something strange taking over me, pulling at me even though I'm resisting with all my physical and mental strength. It's impossible to ignore; it's something greater than me. I can't fight it. I open my mouth and rasp, "What's going on?"

"It's time for you to go," he says. "You are of age and the power hidden within you is awakening." I almost think he's smiling beneath that infuriating white hood. "Do read the file, my boy. The instructions are especially important today."

I can't say anything else. He—no, I—disappear. I'm gone.

* * *

_January 9, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)_

**Harry:** I hold the blasted piece of metal in my hands. I have no idea what to do with it. Because I have no idea how to activate the bloody thing. Couldn't my Unspeakable have told me a bit more than to just read the file… like maybe _explain_ how to use the stupid thing?

To make things worse, I have no clue where I am. I know I've gone somewhere, probably having to do with time because the vortex that sucked me in felt a lot like the time turner I used back in my third year. Also, my entire conversation had been highlighting time, so I'm guessing quite logically that I'm not in 1997 anymore. What year, I'd really _really_ like to know.

I clutch the rectangular file in my hand until the sharp edges cut into my flesh. It's a miniscule pain compared to what Moody puts you through in Auror training. _Good Merlin_, I curse. Moody's going to have my arse if I'm late. And I'm definitely going to be, unless I can find a way out of here.

Flipping the metal thing between my fingers, I bring it closer so I can inspect it. I don't see anything particularly special about it. It's black, dull, and a bit slick to the touch. I tap my finger against it and wonder how I'm supposed to use the damned thing. Turning it around a few more times, throwing it, and picking it back up—I've gotten no where.

"Great," I mutter, not really caring because there's no one around anywhere I can see. The air is quiet and the grounds are a bit wet from a shower. I don't feel like I'm near Hogwarts, but I don't feel unsafe. "Just great, stuck in the middle of nowhere."

I stare at the metal file, which has absolutely nothing on it. "How do I use this shit—bloody hell!" I exclaim and drop the file when it starts to glow and heat up. I bend over and pick it up, noticing how it shimmers a dark, eerie green.

It stops whatever it's doing once I have it in my hands. For a moment, I think I'm out of luck but then it starts scrolling some words: _Day 1, 9-1-1968, go to the clearing to the left. You will find your life case there. _

Well I know the year now. I went back almost thirty bloody years. Merlin, this is unbelievable. I actually jumped many years to the past when time turners can only muster a few days at best. What is this power I have? A natural ability to time shift? Even more importantly, how do I use it to get back to my time?

The file beeps and blinks until I look at it. Clever device, I think when it starts to scroll another message: _You must know who your life case is before you can go back. _

Whoever wrote this knows me well. It's like this person can read my mind, knows what I want to find out when I need to. This whole situation is uncanny. And yet it fits, oh it fits with the prophecy and the past. I have the power, indirect as it is.

I clutch the metal file and start trudging to the left, walking a good way before reaching a vast and wide clearing. It's odd to see such a beautiful meadow flanked by craggy rocks and twisted trees. But it's a lovely sight. The only problem is that I don't see anyone here, at least not from where I am. Some of my vision is blocked by a small hill that flanks to the right and from what I can see, it dips down into a little valley of its own.

The wind suddenly blows in my direction and I hear a faint, soft voice singing: "Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to meee…. Happy Birthday to me."

I don't recognize the voice, but it sounds like a child, a sad child. I feel my heart pull me instinctively in that direction. Whatever reservations I had about this life case, my life case, are ebbing away. He reminds me of me. The voice (for some reason I just know he is male) and the situation—though I never sang to myself—is far too similar to how I celebrated my birthdays.

I trek up the hill, stumbling when I catch sight of the boy. He's small, thin, and as alone as I was. There is something about his voice—the closer I get and the clearer it becomes—that I think I recognize. It's younger and higher than I've heard it, but I know when the kid looks up, turns around, I'll see my life case and it'll be Snape.

Suddenly the file burns in my hand and I yelp. I open my palm, about to drop it when I see a message: _Time to go back home. _It cools instantly and I yank my head up when I hear the boy—Snape—cry out. I withdraw my wand instantly, my Auror instincts making me think that there's danger nearby. But when I look into his dark, wide eyes I realize it's me that he fears.

_How odd, _I think as some weird magic swirls out of my wand and envelops me. Everything around me vanishes when I disappear. _He's actually afraid of me._

* * *

A/N: Please review. This is the 2nd time it's been deleted. I'd really appreciate any support. 


	2. Chapter Two

**THE SANDGLASS**  
By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra, Lesameschelle, and Irishgirl12000.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?  
__  
_

_January 9, 1968 (Severus is 8)_

**Severus:** I told my house elf about seeing an apparition of a person pop into the field, and I wonder if I ought to tell Father about the stranger. But Meery was insistent, in her way, that I not tell my father about it. I understand why. It's not like he even cares that I exist. I'm nothing to him.

I glare at the portrait of my mother that I sometimes love and worship, but hate now. Why did she have to die? _Why did a stupid Muggle disease have to kill her! _She should have been stronger, she was a pureblood witch! There was no reason for a Muggle weakness to kill her. I twist my face into a sneer that I often saw on my father's face whenever he used to look at her before he would banish her to her personal rooms, where he no longer goes.

My sneer falters when I see Mother's eyes blink sadly at me. I can read every one of her faces, and this is one that makes me sad. I hate it when she's sad, and I hate it that I can't hear her voice. But every one of her portraits has been silenced by an obscure spell that only Father knows. If only I could find it… _but _what would I do if I did? I can't go against him. I'm not strong enough.

He hates her so much that I almost forget that he used to love her, love me. And he probably hates me too, when he remembers I'm still around. But mostly he stares right through me as if I'm not real. I don't know if it's better or worse. It's bad enough that I've lost my mother, but did I have to lose my father too?

He might have never been as affectionate as Mother was, but… he is_ my _father—and I miss having him around.

* * *

_October 9, 1998 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 38)_

**Severus: **At least at this meeting, I'm not required to baby-walk Potter to the room. And this time maybe I won't be forced to sit next to him. Last time, I think with a sneer, just because we arrived together and arrived last—thanks to his hopeless tardiness—there were only two seats left.

To my great misfortune, when I arrive, there is only one unoccupied seat left, and it is next to my most illustrious student… Potter. I hold back a grimace and sit down. Perhaps if I try to ignore him I can forget that he is again plaguing my existence with his mere presence. Now if he would only stop smiling at me in that ridiculous manner of his. Does he not realize that I _truly_ dislike him?

Sometimes I feel I could go as far as to say I despise him. _Especially_ when he's grinning at me like an imbecilic fool. There is nothing to grin at. I don't see why he feels he has to pretend to be glad to see me, hiding his loathing under a pretense of good nature; I would much prefer honesty.

"Now that Severus has joined us," Albus remarks after I reluctantly take the seat next to Potter, "shall the meeting convene?"

I am amused how Albus alludes to the idea of a democratic system when there really is none. He is the Head of this Order and his word is law. I stifle my desire to roll my eyes when everyone cries in assent. I settle back into my chair and prepare myself for another long, mundane meeting about how bad the situation is getting and how more should be done to stop it.

"Any important announcements before we begin our agenda?" Albus asks.

My bored black eyes scan the crowd, hoping to cow any prospective speaker that would make this meeting any longer than necessary. Unfortunately, per usual, Arthur Weasley does not get the meaning of my glare. I wonder if he thinks it's a go-ahead to speak. Those blasted Weasleys need more brain underneath their atrocious red hair or a modicum of ability to read expressions with a grain of common sense.

"Actually," Arthur says, standing up from his chair, "it has come to my attention that perhaps not _all_ of the Ministry's resources are being utilized to help in the effort to subdue the threat of You-Know-Who." He pauses for a grand effect that he cannot hope to achieve. "I realize that the work the Unspeakables do is classified, but do you not think it is strange that we do not even know how many of them there are? Official numbers aren't even kept. There are no records whatsoever.

"So we really have no concrete idea what their purpose is, if they are even expending effort to help in this fight. Considering the Department of Mysteries take in a significant part of the Ministry's allotted budget, do you not think they should be more closely monitored, so that we know what they are doing against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Several voices chime in, from the Wizengamot and Aurors as well as Ministry folk, but the voice next to me does not. Potter probably has nothing good to add to this rather interesting subject matter. Who would have thought that a Weasley could think to such a degree? It's almost impressive.

If there weren't so many inherent problems to his proposition…

"Please sit, Arthur," Albus says with a damned twinkle in his eyes. It has to be some kind of _Congenial Glamour_, though which I have yet to discover. Knowing the Headmaster as I do, it's probably so obscure that he retains the only copy of the incantation known to wizard-kind. "And if the rest will settle down?"

It's amazing the power one man holds over a room of forceful personalities. It should be our right to dominate him with our voices, but somehow—with some special quality only he possesses—Albus compels us all into a standstill. A pin could drop and its sound would resonate in our commanded silence.

"Arthur and the rest of you should realize that the Unspeakables indeed do valuable work that must be kept under the heaviest veil of secrecy," Albus remarks, his eyes drifting over each and every member of the Order. "I am sure you are aware that they guard the prophecies and other similar mysteries. I can assure you that the Unspeakables are doing what is in their power to stop this war. They are not as secluded as you all would believe."

"But Albus—" a witch, a member of the Wizengamot, begins.

"We must not doubt our allies even in their mysteries," Potter speaks up, rising from his seat. I itch with the impulse to take him by the hand and drag him back down before he says something foolish. "It will divide us and weaken us. We cannot afford that."

"Mr. Potter," the witch, Marchbanks, I believe, says, "their activities still cannot remain in the dark. We must know what they are doing so we may plan for the best course of action, to put their talents to best use."

"What if their talents are already being put to their best use?"

"I would think as an Auror-in-training, Mr. Potter," she says in an increasingly nasal voice, "that you would be most interested in where your division gets shortchanged. I believe that your Department's funding was reduced by 15 percent last year due to the request of the Unspeakables for more resources."

"I believe what they do is important," Potter says, pressing his lips together stubbornly.

"Important enough that somehow You-Know-Who almost managed to get his hands on the prophecy?" Marchbanks asks.

I hear Potter suck in a hissing breath. "I believe everyone already knows whose fault that was." He pauses. His green eyes flash dangerously before dropping when Albus directs his attention toward his protégé. "It was mine."

I nearly avert my eyes from him. It is unlike Potter to admit he is at fault. My eyes slide instead to Albus, who appears as imperturbable as he always does. I shudder to think that Potter is turning into a mastermind like him. That is what the Headmaster wants, isn't it? It has never been a secret that Albus has watched over and mentored the Boy-Who-Lived more carefully than even his precious Marauders. But I scarcely think even Albus could interfere with Moody's intensive Auror training. So what has changed Potter from a rash man into something much like the man he needs to be?

"Harry is correct," Albus remarks in a firm voice. "The Unspeakables have an important role to play, even if we do not know what it is. Who knows… they might even be here among us?"

It would be rude to snort or roll my eyes, but no one here could be an Unspeakable. There is such myth, legend about them that it is hard to believe they would be among the wizards and witches here. It would a pity if they are.

"If there is nothing else," Albus says, "shall we move onto the agenda for today?"

* * *

_October 21, 2008 (Harry is 28, and Severus is 48)_

**Harry:** It's been more than ten years since the war broke out, and it's still going strong. Thank Merlin, there is the occasional ebb of the tide. It makes me weary to think about how many years that we still have left before this can all end. But we're getting there; I've been working with Severus from past and future. Hopefully, in the present he can stop the course of this war like his future self says is possible.

Of course, nothing is certain until it happens. Time has a funny way of changing on us. It's an inconsistent thing. What happens in the future can be irrevocably changed if some details are told or known before they should be. It's the reason why I don't ask unless I'm told to ask. It's better not to know the details, possibilities are enough.

"Stop thinking," Severus says, coming up behind me and sliding his arms around my waist. "It does no good."

"Shouldn't you listen to your own advice?" I turn my head slightly and press my cheek against his neck.

"My capacity for thinking exceeds yours."

I almost laugh. "I take it you're done for the day?"

"Yes," he says. "I'm done with trying to teach idiots the fine art of Potions."

I turn in his arms until I'm facing him. "Why do you continue to teach?"

"Someone must," he responds and pushes me against the wall. He bends his head down and kisses me and I ask no more questions.

He's right—someone must.

* * *

_July 31, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "So you're back," my Unspeakable says when I fall to my knees in front of him, "a bit faster than I expected."

I groan when I stand up, feeling older somehow. "I went back in time."

"Yes, you did. It's your gift."

"I don't understand though. I did it without a time turner," I mutter. "I went back in time without using magic."

"You did use magic. You used your own magic within you, which shifts you in time to where you need to be," he says. "It is the power that the Dark Lord knows not."

"But how?"

My Unspeakable offers me a hand, gnarled and wrinkled. I take it and he pulls me up with more strength than I would expect from an old man. "It tends to stay within certain bloodlines," he says. "There are quite a few Potters that have been Unspeakables."

"Then why have I never heard of them?" I demand.

"Unspeakables tend to remain hidden in the shadows."

"Then why haven't you?"

He adjusts his robes until they once again cover every part of his body. "Because you are one of us."

"I _am_ going to be an Auror."

"You've seen Snape as a child," my Unspeakable says. "He's your life case. Without you to guide him, he will become lost, and that will change the present you now live in and do unmentionable damage to the future. And my boy, you can be both an Auror and an Unspeakable. You are a field Unspeakable, so you won't be restricted to the Department of Mysteries as others are. You, like me, can live a double existence."

I look at him carefully, trying to see if I recognize anything about him, but all there is to note is striking white. "Who are you?"

"Your Unspeakable."

"What's your name?"

"You may call me whatever you wish," he says, "but I cannot give you my name. Your circumstance is extraordinary, to the point where you even know you have an Unspeakable. Before you, this would be unheard of. I felt your case could be an exception. You needed convincing and I am the best person to do the job. I know you better than you know yourself."

I wish I could see his bloody face! "You can't know me better than I know myself."

"I saved your past, I see your present, and I know your future," he declares. "Can you say the same?"

"But I know my feelings and my thoughts better than you."

"I know what you will do, and you will be an Unspeakable. It is your destiny."

"It _is not_."

My Unspeakable starts to circle around the _tempus temporis_ shape. "You can deny it all you want, but when your gift calls you to go where you must—you will go. It will be harder on you without the training and guidance that I can give you. I know, since I have been in your place once… a long time ago."

I have the sinking feeling that he's right, that I cannot escape this. But I don't want to be locked into another role that I must play simply because I am Harry Potter, the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. "I've already screwed up," I say. "Snape's seen me."

I see him smile in my mind. "He was supposed to. Subsequent meetings will need to be more clandestine on your part, of course," my Unspeakable remarks. "But this one breach can be excused as you were not prepared to be flung back in time."

"I won't do this."

"You have no choice, my boy. You already are an Unspeakable in the future and the past, and so you will be in the present." He stops at the highest point in my line of vision. "You can say no, but you will still go."

"Tell me how to control this time traveling thing then!" I demand.

"It's not something you can just forget about," he says. "You will be compelled to travel back and forth, forward and back. If you go voluntarily, it will be easier on your body, mind, and soul. If you don't, it will be harder. There are very few Unspeakables like us for good reason. This is harder, much harder than anything you will ever learn in Auror training."

"It's just time traveling."

"You have yet to experience being in a place where another you also exists. It does things to your mind, warps it, to know that there are two of you and one of them isn't really you but is. I can teach you, help you in this if you will allow me to."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you will have to face this on your own."

I breathe in. "Why wasn't I told earlier?"

"Would you have believed?"

Would I? "I don't know."

"You believe now though."

"I cannot disbelieve."

He offers a hand. "Will you voluntarily join us?"

"I…"

"_But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not,_" my Unspeakable begins in a deep, powerful voice, _"and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."_

"I know that, I've heard it, read it many times."

"_For **neither** can live while the **other** survives._"

"What are you trying to say?"

"Take my hand," he commands. "I have said what I have said."

I do not take the hand.

"Take it," he urges.

"Tell me what you mean!"

He lowers his hand. "Think on it and come back tomorrow."

He lifts his hand and everything shifts away, folds over. And when everything is once again still—I am the only one in the room.

Alone again.

**TBC**

A/N: I have no idea why it was deleted the first two times. It just says your story has been removed. I think someone thought this was chan, which it's not. Please review (and take those bad memories away). I don't think they removed it for the slash.

Thanks to those that review, you made my day: **Clodia** (I'm glad it's interesting b/c a lot of ppl seem not to think so, at least that's my impression when ppl don't review), **Black Lion** (short enough time?), Khronos, glassdragon2, Imagination, redfox13, **Rowana S** (As I said, I found it puzzling to. So I've taken all the mildly R scenes out, not terribly important in the early going, but will be in the later going).


	3. Chapter Three

**THE SANDGLASS  
**By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra, Lesameschelle, and Irishgirl12000.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?_

_

* * *

_

_August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "You will not be able to control the instinct to time travel at first," my Unspeakable says. "But eventually you will be able to control where you go, whenever you want. It's difficult to master, and only once you've gained significant experience will you be able to feel like you're in control, though you never really are. Time is a changeable thing, never constant. You must remember that."

"How do I do what I am supposed to do then?"

"The best you can," he answers. "You have that." He points to the metal file I'm flipping between my knuckles. "It will guide you whenever you need answers, and it will tell you what you can know and what you must leave unanswered."

"But…"

"You don't have much time," he says. "You're going to leave in about five minutes and there's something important that I must tell you."

"What?" I ask.

"You need to use a _phasma phasmatis_ spell." My Unspeakable takes out an old, yellowed parchment and hands it to me. "I would specifically use this one, but you may use another if you choose."

I take what is offered. "I don't have much choice, do I?" I raise an eyebrow. "You didn't give me enough time to find another spell before I'll be shifted back in time."

"What makes you think you're going to the past?"

I wrinkle my forehead. "I'm going to the future? Then why would I need to be a ghost?"

"Clever boy," he says. "You are _more_ _so_ than you would think or others would tell you. And yes, you are going back to the past, but you cannot let yourself assume that you will always go back in time. Time is not something you can predict. You might be able to guide its momentum, but you cannot stop its natural impulse."

"Why must I be a ghost?"

"You have already shown yourself to Severus the child," he remarks, "but he cannot believe you are who you are. We are Unspeakables, Harry, and we are not to be visible to the world. I would have done the same if you did not need to know about us to join us."

"How did you know?"

He lifts his head slightly and I see a trace of a shadow on his face, but not enough to distinguish his features. "That is for me to know and for you to ponder."

"I…"

I lurch to my knees when the world starts to spin around me. It feels slightly different this time around. I don't feel like I'm disintegrating as much as I am disconnecting from my timeline and shifting to another. Is that what I am? A shifter… drifter?

* * *

_March 19, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)_

**Severus:** The ghost in the clearing looks familiar, like I've seen him before. I try to get closer, but there's really nowhere I can go without him catching sight of me. If he turns just a little to the right, the sun will be in his face instead of the shadows. Strange… it's like he hears me, because he's turning and—I quickly use my hands to cover my mouth to stop my gasp. It's the stranger from before! From _that_ day.

What is he doing back?

And—I try to remember—was he a ghost before? He must have been. Unless he died sometime between then and now. I don't really know if I remember him being see-through like he is. But I think it's him. It looks like him, though it's hard to tell. I didn't really get a good look at him before and, really, maybe I only think this because he is in nearly the same spot as before.

Is he one of those ghosts that haunts a place? I sit back and think about it, careful that I remain hidden behind the tree. I can't be sure if _that_ ghost is one of the friendly ones or one of the ones that aren't. I cringe when my foot steps on a twig and it makes a loud snapping sound. But when I peer to the side, it doesn't look like the ghost has noticed. I sigh with relief and lean back, only to feel something cold pass through me.

I look down and I see a hand, more white than skin-colored, sticking out from my chest. "Boo," the ghost says when I whirl around and see his faded image. I jump back and he smiles. "Did I scare you?"

"Of course you didn't!" I shout, but I still take a few steps back.

"Then why are you moving away?" the ghost asks and glides forward.

I twist my face, or at least try to, just like my father does. "That doesn't mean anything."

The ghost shrugs, that is if he can. It looks like one, but I could just be seeing the wind twisting him around. "So who are you?" he asks, and he doesn't seem to be looking at me as much as he's staring at something in his hands. "Your name?"

"Why should I tell you?" I retort.

This time I'm sure of the smile on the ghost's face. It's definitely one. "Then I'll tell you mine."

I sniff my nose suspiciously. Even if he did tell me the truth, I wonder if giving my name to a ghost would be a bad thing. If he knows my name, can he then haunt me? But don't ghosts only haunt people in their lives that were important for some reason, whether good or bad? He really has no such reason with me, but still… didn't my father tell me to always err on the side of caution?

Besides, why put my trust in someone who is more somewhere else than here? I can barely tell what he looks like. It's indistinct in some places, though I think his eyes used to be vivid, but they're murky and dull like the rest of him now. He looks young though, much younger than Father. He shouldn't be dead, and he doesn't seem like he came from another time. I could easily imagine him fitting into life now. How long has he been dead?

"Why should I trust you?"

He laughs and it sounds rich, like how my mother used to laugh. "I'm a ghost, I can't hurt you."

"But you can haunt me."

He looks at me and I see a glimmer of color in his eyes, though it's so little that I'm not sure what it is. "Why would I want to?" he asks, almost sounding innocent.

It's hard to believe that a dead person, especially one that is years older than me, could sound like a naïve young boy. It just doesn't seem right. Maybe that's the reason why he's dead. "Is that why you died?"

The ghost blinks. "Shouldn't you be asking me my name?"

I shrug. "I'd rather know how you ended up becoming a ghost."

"I died," he says simply.

I roll my eyes. "That's quite clear. But how did you die?"

An expression that looks like one of my father's crosses his face, but like everything else that might make him resemble a living, breathing human—it disappears. "A spell," he answers and pauses. "Just a spell."

"Did you do something stupid?" It's what my father would ask of me.

"I suppose."

"You aren't an idiot, are you?" He laughs and I scowl, which only makes him laugh harder. "Why are you laughing?" I cry, trying to screw my face into a more proper glare. Why is he laughing when I'm trying to intimidate him! Bloody ghost! "Stop it!"

He stops after a second or two, and unlike Father his colorless eyes are almost kind. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh."

"Then why were you?"

He smiles a little. "You reminded me of someone."

I frown. "Who?"

"Just someone from some time ago," he answers vaguely.

That reminds me that I still don't know who he is, but do I even want to? He doesn't seem that smart, and if he got himself killed by a spell—that certainly confirms his lack of intelligence. At the same time, a ghost could prove useful as someone to talk to and find things out from. After all, they're dead—they should know more than the living, shouldn't they? Except my ghost happens to be an idiot.

My eyes focus back on the ghost instead of the trees I had been looking at through him. "Will you tell me your name?"

"I thought I asked you first."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, as I often see my father do when he's frustrated with someone, usually me. "If I tell you mine, will you promise to tell me yours?"

His eyes look down again at something in his hand, as if he almost wants to avoid my question. "I can't, I don't have one."

I narrow my eyes. "Everyone has a name."

"It's been so long… and I've drifted for I don't know how long... I have forgotten who I used to be."

"You remembered you died by a spell," I point out, not quite believing him.

He looks confused. "I suppose every ghost remembers their death."

This ghost is going to be useless if he remembers nothing. I'm disgusted. I should walk off and just leave him here. There's no point in talking with him if he knows nothing. He can't teach me anything that I want to know. I turn and start moving my feet forward and away.

"And I remember I used to be lonely," he calls out. "It's why I'm here, I think." I slow down. "Do you mind if I was your friend?"

"I thought you said you wouldn't haunt me," I snap.

I feel him drift closer, and for some reason his presence doesn't chill me like a ghost's should. I've read about it in books, ghosts tend to bring cold air wherever they wander. But I don't feel any colder.

"Friends do not haunt."

"I am not your friend."

"But I would like you to be."

I turn to him and snarl, "And why would I want to be friends with an idiot?"

The ghost looks surprised, and then sad. "I see," he says and vanishes, like he did before.

And I am left alone. I almost wish the opposite.

* * *

_August 2, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** My life case is Snape. Severus Snape, of all people! And somehow I've agreed to this. I thought all night and then went back to my Unspeakable and said that, _yes, I would do what is asked of me._ And yet this time I didn't feel like I was being manipulated. This time I felt like this really is my calling.

It's strange. I didn't want to believe it at first. But when I consider his words, it's like he knows just what to say to me to get me to agree. He's almost like Albus—could my Unspeakable be him? It's possible, and yet why doesn't he just take off his hood and tell me? It's supposed to be a secret though. Unspeakables are supposed to be hidden, unmentionable, secrets. Too bad I've already blown it.

Why does my case have to be the Professor who hates me the most? Why couldn't it be someone else? But who could it be? There aren't many wizards who are more important than Snape in this war against Voldemort. I can only list a handful of names who might be more so, and that only by a tiny margin, if any at all. It makes sense, and if I must do this for the greater good—then so be it.

I will. I will guide him, be there for him. And hopefully, I'll keep the course of the world's fate in a steady procession of progression.

There will be no devastation.

* * *

_August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry: **I was nice to Snape. The file told me to be, and somehow I managed it. I wasn't insolent like he always tells me I am—I was kind. It was easier than I though, perhaps because this young Snape isn't too hard to separate from the other one. I wrinkle my nose and press my head into my pillow.

It feels like it's been a long day even though, according to my Unspeakable, I was only gone for a few minutes. Ron even flooed earlier to ask me if I wanted to head over to his place. He was going to cook for himself and Hermione, but I didn't want to get in the way of those two lovebirds. Besides, I really am exhausted. I could use some sleep.

Who knew time traveling could be so tiring?

* * *

_March 31, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)_

**Harry: **"You're back," Snape the boy says. It's odd to think of the Potions Master ever being this young, let alone seeming innocent, and yet he is. There's no doubt that the boy tries to be imposing, but his small stature makes that impossible. "I didn't think you'd come back."

I don't feel the file burning. It has nothing to tell me, and I would like direction. What am I suppose to say without revealing too much? I almost got myself trapped last time, almost gave Snape my name! "S—eems like I had no place else to go," I say and mentally kick myself. I don't know his name yet. No bloody piece of metal has to tell me that. "I guess that's why I'm here, and if you don't mind—I would like to stay."

His face twists into such consideration. It reminds me of his older self, the Professor I could hate if only he hadn't saved me so many times over the last few years. It's funny that I'm his Unspeakable, his guide, when he's been my savior. It's fair, I think, that it's his turn to be saved.

Besides, as I told myself before, it's for the greater good.

"As long as you don't do anything stupid," the boy says, "you may stay."

So kind and generous of him, I think with an inner grin. He doesn't like to concede anything, even at this age, does he? "I can't do much as a ghost," I point out. "All I can do is _be_, it seems."

He nods his head just enough to agree. "You can't do much damage."

"Not much good other than scaring people," I remark.

"Do you?" he asks, his voice getting that curious note that younger people tend to have. Children, but I wouldn't call Snape a child.

"Have I scared you?"

He shakes his head. "No, of course not."

"Then I must not scare people."

"You're a rather pathetic ghost," he retorts, something gleaming in his eyes that isn't quite nice.

How like him, I reflect. "I guess I am."

"You are," the younger Snape insists. "What ghost doesn't remember his own name?"

He has a valid point. But it's not like I can tell him I'm his Unspeakable, can I?

"But I have a name for you," he declares.

I blink. He does? "What is it?" I can't help but ask.

"Drogo. I think of you as Drogo in my mind. It's better than mere 'ghost,' isn't it?"

I don't think I've heard of the name before, but something tells me I should have—if only to wipe the weird shine off the boy's dark eyes. "What does the name Drogo mean?"

The smirk on his face is too reminiscent of the elder Snape's. "Ghost of course."

"In what language?"

"English."

I bite my tongue. I can't very well yell at this younger version of my former Professor. But why does he have to be so full of himself even at this age? "It doesn't sound English."

"It was introduced by the Normans," the boy explains in a patronizing tone, as if he were speaking to a child instead of being one. "I forget what century, but it was quite a while back. Don't you know anything about history and the origins of the English language? How the words are rooted from many different places?"

I count to ten in my head. It's what I often had to do in Potions class to prevent myself from just losing control of the situation. Hermione taught me the trick, though why she hadn't told me sooner I have no idea. Then again I wasn't the best listener in my 5th year. I cringe at the memories of what I was like. I was such a… such a teenager. Not that I'm that much older now, but I'm not quite as prone to emotional outbursts anymore. Trying to avoid being killed numerous times tends to sober childish antics.

"I guess you don't," he concludes when I don't respond.

I'm too busy imagining myself gritting my teeth and clenching my fists in an attempt to sooth my growing annoyance at his utter Snape-ish behavior. Merlin, he must have always been like this. I'm beginning to think I prefer the older Snape. At least he has a reason to shoot me down. What does this boy have against me? I'm just a sodding ghost, for god's sake!

"Well, I'm Severus Marcellus Snape," he says and holds out his hand, then drops it when he remembers that _I am_ a ghost. "But you may call me Severus."

Why do I get the feeling he thinks he's bestowing a huge favor on me? "Severus," I say in a strained voice, pretending not to be, "it's nice to meet you and thanks for the name."

He almost smiles, but it ends up looking more like a grimace. He shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't very well call you 'ghost' forever, could I?"

I guess not.

**TBC**

A/N: Thanks for all those that reviewed, you definitely make studying and going to MCAT classes a bit more bearable. Updates should continue at a steady pace for a few more weeks, as I have backups.

Thanks to **noctu** (it was), wolfawaken, **Aycelcus** (bahleetion? Deletion?), **Asrai** (thanks for commenting again, I really really appreciate it), **Wingdance** (there was some mild R-rated stuff, but it was mostly implication. Though I have to agree about Aspen's story), koryan'shea, Rowana S.


	4. Chapter Four

**THE SANDGLASS**  
By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?_

_

* * *

_

_June 20, 1968 (Severus is 8)_

**Severus:** Drogo says he doesn't know when he'll come back. It's been weeks, actually, almost two months since I last saw him. I don't know why I want him to come back to this meadow that my father hates. It's not like he's useful to me. My books have more information about history and magic than he does, but some of the things he says are interesting.

I wonder why his visits are sometimes closer together and other times they drift weeks apart. I remember seeing him that first time and not seeing him for months after, then seeing him several times within a two week period. It's strange how things squeeze together and then come apart.

The skies are darkening and the clouds are gathering. I should go in. He's obviously not coming today and maybe not even tomorrow. It could still be weeks, and I don't know why I'm even waiting. He's just a ghost, a nobody, and I gave him my name.

What would Father say?

* * *

_April 3, 1968_ (_Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)_

**Harry:** The metal file burns in my hand. I look down: _Day 3, 3-4-68, Severus is reading, wait two hours for him._ So I sit down in the clearing, covered from the view of the austere manor by some well-placed trees. Too bad I don't have a way to measure time. Normal watches are pretty useless at Hogwarts, and the wizard one I have isn't much use with waiting. It'd only tell me what I should be doing, _waiting, _which is exactly what I am doing

The sun travels westward across the sky until it lowers itself into the horizon. I wonder if enough time has passed, but when I look at the file it still says I should be waiting. I wander aimlessly around, marveling at the stark beauty of the landscape. Who knew Snape grew up in such a place of untraditional loveliness?

"You're back," Severus the boy says. "I didn't think you'd come back this fast."

I almost tell him that I was just here, but then it clicks what the stupid file was telling me. That I wasn't here yesterday… that it is now a few days later in this time. Odd, how I've skipped days in his time. I slowly nod and shift my insubstantial body until I'm facing him. "It seems I have wandered back."

"Where do you go when you wander?" he asks, looking at anywhere but at me. It's like he's trying not to seem too interested, but there's a note in his voice that says he is quite curious.

I would have shrugged if he was facing me. Since he's not, it's a rather useless waste of movement. What was Moody always telling me? _Never, _ever _waste_ movement. You never know if you'll have a chance to get it back. I cringe and wonder how he'll take the fact that I'm supposed to be at a training session that I'm not going to attend. It doesn't matter if I'm only gone for five minutes my time. I'm always too exhausted to do anything when I go back.

"Did you hear me?" he snaps.

Impatient, impatient boy. What would happen if I ignored him? The older him would just stalk off, but something tells me that this younger Severus wouldn't. He'd stay and just keep staying until I did pay attention, or leave—and that makes me inexplicably _feel_ for him. I know how it is, to be unwanted.

"Yes, I heard," I say. "My mind was just thinking of an answer."

"You have a slow mind," he sneers.

"You have the time to really think when you're dead," I answer simply.

His lips curl up and then press together and thin out. It's like he can't make up his mind what he wants his expression to show. I think it's comical and I would laugh, but somehow if he's anything like the older Snape—he'll take offense. I suspect child Severus would throw an inner tantrum instead of making a derisive comment. Or maybe he'd do both.

"That could be just an excuse," he accuses.

"Or a wise aphorism."

His eyes pop open at that word, then narrow again. "Are you trying to use big words to impress me?"

I shake my head, but I'm not so sure how that works when you're a ghost. I can imagine myself doing it, but moving my body as a ghost is a lot about thinking myself along. The lack of a physical body means I don't have something I can intuitively control. There is nothing tangible to manage, it's all a mental game—Moody should be proud of me. I'm building my bloody focus.

"Well, are you?" young Severus demands.

Why would I be? It was the older him that frequently shows me up with words I don't… I blink—it would be too ironic if I was the one that taught the word to Severus only for him to teach it to me.

"Do you not know what the word means?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. "Aphorism?"

He scowls. "That's not an answer."

"I used it because I thought you knew what it meant." I glide closer. "But I'm guessing you don't?"

His irritated expression deepens and he shakes his head with ill grace.

"A word similar to aphorism would be _saying_," I explain.

"Then why didn't you just say that?" he asks in exasperation.

I sink down until I'm at his level. "Sometimes you make me forget you're not an adult."

His aggravation disappears. He looks pleased, something I've not really seen on Professor Snape's face before. It transforms his face and makes him look more like a child than I've seen him since that day—the day when my heart hauled me forward.

"Do I really?"

For some reason, this is important to him. So I nod as best I can and say, "Yes, you do."

* * *

_August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "Where have you been, Potter?" Moody demands, sticking his face into mine until we're almost nose-to-nose. "You should have been here _hours_ ago."

"I apologize," I say softly, not bothering to explain myself. It would only anger him further if I told him the truth of where I had been. "I forgot the time."

"You don't just forget to come in to training, Potter. You have disrespected not only me, but also your fellow Aurors-in-training. And that is all you have to say?" His voice is rising and rising in volume. "That you forgot the time? That's it?"

I cringe inside, but make sure not to let it show. It would be a sign of weakness, and Moody has taught us to be anything but weak. It doesn't make it easy though, and I'm not sure if I succeed. I've gotten better, I know. I still need to be better than what I am. I have to be like a mannequin—that's Hermione's analogy from what she's heard from Ron and me.

"And it's the _second time_ this week," Moody manages to almost hiss. "You have been a good trainee thus far, but your recent behavior makes me reconsider if you are serious about being an Auror."

My main focus has changed, I'll be the first to admit, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be an Auror. I have this people-saving thing. I know it. My friends have told me again and again until I get that I do. And while helping young Severus is surely a good thing, I still want to do more. That requires being an Auror. I _will_ finish what I've begun.

"I don't know why, but I've just been out of it this week." I make myself sound pathetic, desperate, and all the things I should be feeling but I'm not. "I really am sorry." My green eyes drift to my fellow trainees, some of which I know far too well—like Ron and Neville—and others I don't, like the ones from other Houses and those not from Hogwarts. "I apologize to everyone."

I'm humbled, and Moody has a barely perceptible smile. He's satisfied. I let myself feel relieved, and I can see the corner of his mouth tilting up just a bit more. Has my Unspeakable done what Albus has always tried to teach me? To be kindly manipulative? Dear Merlin, I'm _becoming _like him.

But I'm still myself, and I know my eyes are honestly guilty.

* * *

_July 10, 1971 (Severus is 11)_

**Severus:** "Don't!" I plead, my hands grabbing my father's robes and trying to stop him from destroying the last portrait of my mother that there is. "It's the only one we have. The only one of her. Don't burn it, _please_, I beg you."

It cost me much to say this, when I know he'll think me weak to rely so much on this single, two-dimensional thing of paint, canvas, and wood. I might no longer be able to hear her voice, but at least I can see her smile and her amber eyes glowing with what I think is a love I'll never know again.

"Still your mother's son, aren't you?" he snarls, his fist digging into my robes as well as my flesh. "I thought I beat that out of you months ago."

I shudder as his eyes turn a sickly yellow color. "Please don't, Father."

"I am not your father if you persist in this _pathetic _weakness of yours," he whispers harshly. "She is gone and she'll never come back. It's better just to forget that she ever existed, worthless thing that she was."

I close my eyes and try to shut out the vision of my father's hatred. Merlin, how could he despise someone he once loved so much?

My cheek inflames from the crack that throws me against the wall. "Have your wretched painting. You and she deserve each other."

He stalks past my fallen form and slams the door shut. I open my eyes and glance at the portrait lying on the floor, face down. I don't want to lift it up. It's too easy to imagine what I'll see. She always cries when he burns her.

I huddle into a corner, wrap my arms around myself, and wish my friend would come to me.

* * *

_July 19, 1971 (Harry is 20, and Severus is 11)_

**Severus:** It was hot out here hours ago, but the sun has since faded into the horizon and the moon has started to rise to its peak. He still has not come. I doubt he's coming. He has never arrived this late before. It's hopeless and I should go in, but it's easier to ignore the wild look and madness growing in my father's eyes when I'm outside. I don't think it will be long before his sanity is damaged irreparably.

But soon it won't matter, soon I'll be going to Hogwarts. It doesn't matter that our galleons are low and that I'll basically be a charity ward—being poor doesn't matter. It's the magic I crave, the texts I want. And I can get away from my father, take my mother's portrait somewhere safe and maybe I can find a way to reverse the silence.

"Boo!"

I jump and turn around, glaring at Drogo's immature antics. Sometimes I think he's more of a child than I am! "You do realize that wasn't the least bit scary?"

"Then why did you jump?"

I don't that question worthy of an answer, so I grit my teeth instead.

I feel his cold air, though it doesn't chill me, coming closer and spreading near me. "Why are you upset?" he asks. His voice is gentle and kind. It's like my mother's, I think, though the memory of her is fading—dying. "Don't deny it, I can see that you are."

"Don't pretend to understand everything about me," I snarl instinctively. "You don't."

"Severus," he murmurs, "tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, absolutely nothing."

I feel his hand or something like it go through me. It's like he forgets he's a ghost, thinking that he can still comfort me with touch. I wish he was real; I wish I could cling to him and have him hold me. It's been so long since… anyone has held me.

"You know you can tell me. You know I'll listen."

And I do want to tell him, I've wanted to tell him for the longest time, but he wasn't here when he should! Where has he been? It's been a very long time since his last visit, nearly two weeks. In the beginning, yes, he didn't use to come that often. But as we became closer, he started coming around more. It's not like he has other obligations. He's just a bloody ghost. He can go wherever he likes, whenever he wants, no matter if he has a stupid curse on him or not.

"Why did it take you so long to come?" I accuse. "I needed you days ago and you weren't here!"

His face looks as resigned as a ghost's can be. Drogo has told me how hard it is, trying to create the image of movement and facial expression is even harder. It's the reason most ghosts just tend to have a blank look or one perpetual expression. It's easier just to remember how to tug your face in one way. But Drogo always tries to fit the face to the situation like a real person. Too bad, like any person of flesh and blood, he falls short.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I haven't been feeling well… the curse is just pulling at me even more. Sometimes, I think it's getting stronger."

Sometimes, I just think it's an excuse. But when I look carefully at him, I actually notice he looks tired. He must be feeling it so much that it's being expressed without him having to imagine it so. I almost feel guilty enough to take back my harsh words, and yet I don't. It would horrify my father if he knew I backed down—not that he's sane enough to do anything but destroy what's around him, including himself.

"I really did try to get here," my ghost says. "You know I'm not the type to lie."

"No," I mutter. "You remind me of a Hufflepuff."

Drogo laughs and the sound goes straight to my ears like music. I rarely hear such a happy sound here at the Snape Estate. Nothing but splintering wood and broken glass. I wish that it was the opposite, but it's not.

"It's your father, isn't it?" Drogo guesses.

I slowly nod. Though, it's not like it's a hard thing to realize. There's only one person that can really get at me. My father's the only one who really matters to me. He's the only one that can get under my skin and penetrate my façade of stone and ice. After all, he's a Snape and he's the one who taught me how to put on a front. I've learned it well, but not well enough to use it successfully against him. It's unfortunate.

"What did he do this time?"

I tuck my knees under my chin and hold them tight to my chest. "He tried to destroy my mother's last portrait, the one that's in my room."

Drogo doesn't always know what to say, and when he doesn't, instead he just tries to hold me with his arms as if he were real. He's not, of course, and so his arms go right through me. But it doesn't matter. It's nice to be touched, even if it's by cold arms.

"He didn't, did he?" my ghost asks hesitantly. He's afraid for me and sad too. How like him.

"No, but he nearly did," I whisper, leaning against the tree and wishing I could lean against him. "He broke the frame, but the canvas is all right."

"That's good," he says.

My only response is: "I guess so."

* * *

_August 30, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "You will be formally allowed into an Order meeting next month," Albus declares, peering at me with his round and gold spectacles. "I assume Moody has taught you what protocol to follow when Aurors meet. Virtually the same is required in our meetings. The elders speak first and then those that are younger—unless the discussion is open."

I incline my head respectfully to my former Headmaster, and the man who has mentored me despite much difficulty. "Of course, sir."

"You know you can call me Albus, Harry." He smiles and his eyes twinkle a bit. "I think I've told you that more than once."

I nod. "You have."

"For your first meeting," Albus remarks, shifting back to his former topic as if he has never left it, "you will be guided by Severus through the elaborate new protections that have been set in Grimmauld Place," Albus remarks. "It will probably be quite a surprise to you how we have changed it, but the wards are the strongest they have ever been."

I wonder why Albus chose Snape of all people to show me the way past the wards. There are easily a number of others he could choose. I'm sure Remus would be happy to show me—if he wasn't in France. I forgot that he's over there, gone for who knows how long trying to persuade the werewolves there to join us in this war that threatens to spill into their own lands. It's much the same on more legal diplomatic fronts. Hermione's one of the up and coming members of our Ministry delegation. And my mind's drifting—I can see the understanding on Albus' face.

It's too easy nowadays to lose one's self in thoughts, too many thoughts. "All right," I agree. "When should I come?"

"The next meeting's scheduled for September 17," he says, rising from his seat and his wand appears out of nowhere into his hand. He doesn't ask me if I'm ready. I almost think that's where Snape gets his _Legilimency _attack mentality. Did Albus teach him that like he teaches me now? "_Infractum ossis!"_

I dodge the bone-breaking spell, thanks to my Auror training, and settle myself onto the balls of my feet—ready to move in any directions at the warm-up curses he'll throw my way until we get down to the real business.

"_Legilimens!" _

I shield my mind like an impenetrable glass wall. He can see the images that I allow, but he can't pull them out. I can feel his displeasure and his approval. I'm improving and he knows it. Soon all he'll see are dark shadows of what used to be full revelations.

I push him out of my mind and shout: "_Expelliarmus!" _

"_Protego!" _My spell is battered into dissipation. And so it begins…

**TBC**

A/N: So exhausted. Let me know what you think (as always). It's much appreciated.

Thanks to** Never Odd or even **(thanks), **Clodia** (I haven't decided if Harry will stay in a ghost or not, but he remains so for the next 20k and the other questions, you'll see. Re-P.S. Thanks! I'm grateful for readers like you who tell me what they think), **Paula** (It only gets easier and easier as you get used to it, I just threw a lot of stuff at once**), Melissa Jooty** (The format is, even if the storyline is different from TTW. I try to be different. I'm glad you think the characters are IC. I don't like it when they are way OOC and there's not even an attempt to explain it. I do try to validate my changes in personalities as best I can. I'm glad you're intrigued. Hope you'll keep reviewing, definitely one of the best and most encouraging ones I've received so far), **Dragon Smile** (thanks! There's definitely more Drogo-Snape coming), **and Rowana S** (yeah it's on Schnoogle).


	5. Chapter Five

**THE SANDGLASS  
**By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?_

_September 5, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "I have been waiting for this day," my Unspeakable says with an amused voice.

I narrow my eyes as I always do when I hear that particular tone. It's never bad, but never quite good either. What follows is almost always surprising, even shocking. "Why?" I ask with foreboding and suspicion.

"Because today you will learn something about yourself that you would not think is possible." I can imagine him smiling underneath his white hood. I wish I could see his face, but never once have I gotten a glimpse of it. He keeps himself shrouded in shadows. "Your reaction will be interesting."

"Don't you already know it?"

He doesn't deem the question worth answering, but pushes forward instead. "As usual, your metal file will be important, but I would listen to what your life case has to say."

"I always do," I retort. It would be so much easier to interact with him if I knew what his facial expressions were, even if he's more like stone than flesh. "Have I done anything that makes you think I would do anything rash?"

"You have in the past," he points out.

I grit my teeth and nod once. I'll give him that.

"Oh, and Harry, did I mention that you're going to the future?" I take my wand out about to cast the ghosting spell when my Unspeakable somehow manages to use wandless magic to knock it aside. "Did I forget to mention that you won't be needing the _phasma phamatis _spell?"

I don't even have time to get my wand back because I feel the familiar suction of time taking me. The words I try to say are snatched from me as I'm pulled away. I want to curse him. Why does he always sneak in vital information like that at the last second?

_Damn him._

* * *

_April 17, 2020 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 60)_

**Severus:** I see a familiar dark-headed young man with glowing eyes. It's been a long time since I've seen his younger self, a year or more I think. He's said that it's trickier, trying to tell himself where to go in the future. The past is easier, more settled. The future is still to be determined. Yet he somehow manages to come, flinging himself over the boundaries of time and space to get to me. And he's even younger than ever.

I clutch the white paper where some of the more important dates are written. He doesn't always tell me when he's coming, but today he has. This date is boxed and starred. It must be _very_ important. Unfortunately, he left no explanation as to why.

"Snape," Harry says and I know without a shadow of uncertainty that he doesn't know what we are. As he steps closer to me, I can understand why. I thought he was young, in his 20s, but I vaguely remember this flushed innocence about him when he was on the cusp of manhood. He's not yet an adult. He's close though, very close. "Where am I?"

The room is dark, and of course he won't recognize it. He's never been here before, has he? My mind wanders a bit, and it suddenly makes sense why he seemed comfortable our first time when he should have felt awkward. He had been here before. "My private chambers… at Hogwarts."

"You're still teaching?" he asks. "I thought you would have stopped by now. I never thought you liked it much… unless… is Voldemort still around?"

I inwardly cringe at the name. Even hearing it _now_ after all we've been through doesn't make it any easier. "Despite the fact I might not have been a congenial professor," I remark, the acid in my words comes easily, "it does not mean I do not feel the need to pass on my knowledge to others and no he is not around."

"You make it sound like a burden," Harry points out.

"It can be one when the students refuse to try!"

His cheeks flush a light pink. It reminds me of the times he used to blush often, but not now—not anymore. He's lost some of that innocence, that naiveté that would have gotten him killed if he had tried to keep it. War is never a kind teacher.

"I…" he flinches and glances down at his hand. I know what it is and I'm curious as to what it says. "I guess if I'm not ghosting, you know the truth." I incline my head once; he doesn't need any more affirmation. "This," he says, waving a metal file, "is telling me I'm going to be leaving in five minutes and that I should tell you."

I am reminded again that this day is starred and yet nothing extraordinary has happened. I'm left pondering what my Harry wanted me to say. I try to think back to the days before, think back to what was happening when he was however young he was and however old I was. "How old are you?"

"18," he answers. "It's September 5, 1997 from the time I came from."

It's before that first weird meeting between us, when he was startlingly polite and respectful. Maybe he knew this. Or maybe he did not. Maybe it was only my childhood self that rung that civility out of him. And yet why do I have a doubt emerging in my gut?

I don't believe my younger personage could make Harry try to pursue me. It has to be something else. And at the back of my mind, I know what it is. I can feel a pulsing of certainty. This is the moment of revelation.

"Come here, Harry," I urge. "I have something to show you."

He hesitatingly steps forward. His reluctance might be from astonishment. This is probably the first time in his life I've called him Harry, and yet in mine it's been so many times that I have lost count. But he doesn't ask why. He just obeys me unquestioningly. How odd. Maybe he's already started to like me through my child self.

He's close enough now that I can touch him, and I do. My hands grip his arms and pull him into me. I'm not as strong as I once was, but he's so startled that he falls to me, adding momentum to my force. "This," I say and bend my head down, kissing him with a gentle fervor, "is it."

I let him go and his eyes are so wide and so disbelieving when he vanishes.

I press my forehead into the wall. I hope the idiot boy gets it.

* * *

_September 5, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** I fall to my knees. I still haven't gotten good at landing, and I'm probably going to be bruising pretty badly again. Sod it! While I'm throwing some verbal exclamations, I turn to the triangle where my Unspeakable stands. I might as well have spat some at him.

Merlin, he must be tickled to death. Snape and _ugh…_ that kiss. I shudder and raise my hand to touch my lips, the lips he pressed with his own. The thought just makes me feel sick. I have nothing against him as a person and I actually _like_ his childhood self, but to have him as a lover in the future? That's another story entirely.

"So the hero has returned," my Unspeakable remarks, standing like a smug post. "With revelations, I would imagine."

I jump to my feet and cross the room until I'm face-to-hood with him. "Why didn't you warn me of what was going to happen?" I hiss. "When you knew!"

"Why do you presume I know everything when I don't?" he asks. "I'm not a god."

"No, but you did know and you didn't tell me!" I exclaim. "I know you didn't!"

"Some surprises now and then, will keep you on your toes."

"I—"

"Harry," he says, "it was important that you did not know. It was important that Severus knew you didn't. But now you know, and you're on the right path with keeping the threads of probability that must be maintained."

I grit my teeth. One small tug, change, could separate one strand from the other and unravel the delicate weaving of our world. I understand this. He has explained it more than once, in detail and in summary. I know what could happen if I change things if I don't follow in the footsteps of what has already happened in the future.

"Am I with him?" I inquire stiffly. "Am I with him _like that?_"

"Do you even have to ask?"

I feel dread settle in.

_Bloody hell._

* * *

_December 26, 1968 (Harry is 19, and Severus is 8)_

**Harry:** "I know it's the day after," I remark, gliding my body into the woods where I've hidden my surprise. "But I didn't think you'd mind too much."

"What are you talking about?" Severus retorts.

I vaguely remember the transition from young Severus to just Severus. It happened… too easily, and just remained. Besides, it's not like the adult Severus will ever be just Severus. Written in the fates or not, he still hates my guts with the heat of a thousand fires. You'd think if I was nice to him, he'd lighten up. But no—not him, not ever—he always has to be the stiff, stubborn wizard. You'd think hanging out with his child self might give me clues, but there is none forthcoming.

"Drogo?" Severus calls. "Why are you taking me here?"

I whirl around. "You don't know?"

He scowls. "I wouldn't be asking you if I knew."

"Well then," I respond, "if you have no idea what I'm talking about, then you'll be even more surprised than I thought you'd be."

The lines on his face deepen. "I thought I told you I didn't like surprises."

"I must have forgotten."

"Figures," he mutters. "You have such an awful memory."

I roll my eyes and keep flying forward. I stop abruptly when I reach the wooded area and hover over some old scrolls I had found in my vault. "These are for you," I declare, gesturing at the scrolls. "You mentioned you were interested in Potions the last time we talked, and you said there was nothing left in your family library to read anymore. I found these scrolls lying around somewhere so I thought you might like to have them."

Severus drops to his knees and picks up one of the scrolls carefully. "How did you transport it here? I thought ghosts couldn't carry anything."

I shrug. "I had help."

"Oh," he says and opens the scroll. "Wow, this is great Drogo. Did you know this is dated from the 16th century?"

Nodding is useless when your audience isn't paying attention. I settle for saying: "Happy Christmas" instead.

* * *

_October 21, 1998 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 38)_

**Severus:** There is something off about Potter. No one notices though, thank Merlin. I want to tell him to stop looking at me like this. It's unseemly how obvious he is. Does he not understand that he should at least try to hide his hatred of me? I might not like the brat, but I try not to make it too blatant. Now if only he could learn to do the same. But then asking Potter to learn anything would be… impossible.

"If everyone will please quiet down," Albus remarks, his eyes sweeping around the long table. They briefly land on Potter, who is too busy staring at me to notice. I wonder what is going through that old man's uncanny mind. Whatever it is, maybe he'll think to speak to the boy about this atrocious behavior. "Are there any important matters to discuss before we start the agenda for today?" Albus asks. He pauses long enough to be polite, but begins again quickly enough to stop anyone from really speaking. "Well, first things first… while the potential Aurors-in-training have increased significantly the last three years, the numbers still are nowhere near what they were in Voldemort's first Reign of Terror."

I shudder inside when I hear that _name_, though unlike many of the others here, I do not show my weakness. I suppose it is a sign of strength that the Headmaster and Potter dare to utter a word that strikes such fear into the hearts of so many. I should be glad that they are the ones leading this effort on our side. I do not know of any on the other who would speak of the Dark Lord's name without trepidation.

"…really think it's going to be that bad again?" someone asks. Who it is doesn't matter, but the answer does.

I wait like everyone else in the room, at the edge of the seat, to hear what Albus has to say. "Perhaps," he says, "it could be. We have no idea how much power _he_ has regained. What Severus has told us is mostly inconclusive. Voldemort has not performed any spell that requires much raw magic other than the spell which brought him back to life, and in that he was mainly using the power of Harry's blood."

A pandemonium of questions breaks out. So many that they blend into a mixture of useless babble. How they expect Albus to answer, I have no idea. He is not a God. He might not even be the greatest wizard alive anymore. I scowl when my eyes again catch those green ones stealing glances on me. Potential aside, I doubt Potter has the time to become the most powerful wizard. What then if it is… _the Dark Lord?_

"…training has been stepped up," Moody says gruffly. He might have completely fouled up his time as a Defense Professor, but he is not a complete imbecile. If anything, he is a mule. "Most of the recruits are doing excellently." I notice that he glances at Potter. In affirmation or defamation? "They will finish at least a month early, if not beforehand. Then we will offer an opportunity for those that have decided to be Aurors after this spring's deadline the chance to start their training in another session, if they meet our strict standards."

"Do you think there are enough people interested?" Molly asks.

"There is," Moody says tersely. "I believe as time moves on and as the tension escalates, more and more qualified wizards and witches will want to join our efforts. It was like that last time."

"You don't think it'll be like last time, do you?" she inquires in a shrilly voice of concern and worry.

Moody stares at her with all the force behind his one good eye. "Yes, it could be. It could be—"

"What Auror Moody means," Albus states with complete solemnity, "is that it could very well be even worse than last time. Is that not right, my old friend?"

Moody huffs, crosses his arms, and nods. Only little movements bespeak the coming doom. I have suspected this for a while. That things are not going to get better any time soon. They will get worse and worse until people start to lose hope, like I have done in the scant few years since _his _resurrection. If not for trickery and foolishness—I glare menacingly at Potter—things would not have to be this way.

"I do not mean to frighten any of you good folk," Albus continues, "but I think it is imperative that you understand the gravity of the situation. This threat that _he _poses will not go away unless we do something about it. And to do that, we need the numbers."

"But," an unfamiliar wizard says, "don't we outnumber the… Death Eaters?"

"Their numbers are steadily rising from the disillusionment that our Minister has placed on our society," Albus answers. He suddenly looks his age, old and weary. But it flickers off his face the next moment. "I have not criticized Minister Fudge for his mishandling of Voldemort's second rise, but his indecisiveness and false assurances of security to the public is detrimental to the world we know and love. There is no choice but to be strong and stay strong.

"We cannot dismiss Voldemort lightly. I know what Minister Fudge is thinking, for how can a shadow of a man conquer the whole? But to underestimate your foe will only lead to disaster, and Voldemort is no shadow of a wizard. His body has been crippled into a grotesque form, but he still—I believe—is a formidable power to be reckoned with, regardless of whether he retains all of his previous power."

Albus clears his throat. "We have tried to use covert means, shadow operations to infiltrate whatever base the Death Eaters call their own, but we have had little success. Soon these small fights will break to the surface, into the forefront where our children will see, and where we can no longer deny what will come.

"And believe me, a war will come."

**TBC**

A/N: Some inspiration or motivation would be great. I've been on a writer's block for a month (which means I'm not churning out 5k a week as I usually am for this story). But I'm still 15K+ in front of you so updates should remain consistent for a good while. Thanks for reading (and double thanks to those that review, especially the ones that do it each time!).

Thanks to **Dragon Smile** (Thanks, I'm not really sure how people usually characterize Snape as a child, but it's fun), **acr** (Yes, I've already written that part, I'm about 15k in front of the readers), **MoonKissedChild** (Ah well, there isn't too much I can change from what I've already written), **Echo the Insane** (I can't really stop from deleting the story unfortunately, and I think b/c this is so different no one's reading it sighs), **barbarataku** (I have a very high rate of completion, so it's a high possibility it'll be completed as long as I stay motivated), **Clodia** (No, I don't have a master timeline. It's all in my head and if I forget, I have to go back and check. I have 3 betas, so they alert me if I'm doing something wrong. There's more Snape to come, though not much more on his family), duj, and Amaris Kincaid.


	6. Chapter Six

**THE SANDGLASS  
**By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

_Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?_

_

* * *

_

_February 12, 2024 (Severus is 64)_

**Severus: **I'm always waiting for him. I waited for him in my youth, and I am still waiting for him. Of course, it's different now, but in a way it's still the same. I anticipate his visits. It takes me out of the static, endless, meandering life I am living. His presence jolts me into remembering that there's a point to life. That there is someone out there who cares. And that I do matter.

* * *

_December 23, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "Can I ask you something?

Remus looks up from _The Daily Prophet_, refolds it, and puts it down on the table next to him. "You know you don't have to ask."

I smile tentatively. I've wanted to ask his advice for weeks, but now that he's finally here my words are trapped in my throat. They've been stuck like this for the past week that he's been here. I should ask, I mean to ask, but I don't know how. Things would be much simpler if I could _tell_ everything. But I can't.

"Do you remember the time when I told you I thought I might be interested in boys rather than girls?" I ask.

"Of course, and I told you I had no problem with that," Remus remarks. "Indeed, I told you I suspected that you did have those inclinations before you even told me."

I nod. "Well…"

"And you're interested in someone now?" he inquires.

My cheeks burn. "I have a hypothetical situation," I begin in a mumble. "What if you know, _are absolutely certain that _you're supposed to be with someone that you've thought you've hated all your life? And there is no changing it, it simply is. What would you do?"

"You can always change it," Remus says. "It's your life."

"But what if you can't?" I persist.

"Is something wrong?"

I shake my head. He doesn't look convinced, but he gives in and I push on. "Please, answer the question."

He pauses and eventually says, "You make the best of it."

And so I guess I will.

* * *

_September 17, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "So tell me, my boy," my Unspeakable says, "do you feel the urge to time travel?"

I don't know what answer he wants. I don't usually feel the impulse to go until I go. Sometimes it's everyday, but lately it's been every few days and that's a good thing. I'm always worn out by the time I come back. He says it's because I'm on double time. What I do in the past or the future, I have used no real time, but time is still used. Minutes and hours.

"I don't feel the tug, no."

"It's more than just the pull that drags you there," he says. "It's like a feeling of unease that builds up in you. That's how you know you have to go soon. You haven't been controlling when you go. You can always go, but it's easier when your body agrees with your mind. When it begins feeling natural, you will be able to stay longer and be the one who makes the decision to leave—not the magic."

"But isn't that like controlling time?"

"No," he answers curtly. "You do not control it and will never have control over when you'll return. Sometimes minutes will have passed; sometimes just seconds; other times you'll discover it's been days."

"What… what's it like to stay a long time somewhere other than here?"

My Unspeakable hums with amusement. "You assume that my present is your own, do you not?"

"Isn't it?"

"No, Harry, it isn't."

I leap to an idea, a sudden inspiration. "Do you come from the future? Do you know how to win the war? Is that why you know my life case is Severus? Can you tell—"

The words are taken from my mouth by some kind of wandless magic. My lips are moving, but no sound comes out. I stare at him with wild eyes. I plead with him to tell me what's going on.

"You must never ask that question to any of the time travelers," he says in a cold voice. "Do you understand me?"

I nod, still unable to speak.

"People have killed for less," is all he says before he releases the spell.

* * *

_July 21, 1971 (Harry is 20, and Severus is 11) _

**Severus:** "I'm leaving for Hogwarts soon." I stand with a hand placed on the tree for some support against the heady changes that will be coming. I'm looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. When I go, does that mean I won't see Drogo anymore?

"That's wonderful," he says. "Have you bought your school supplies yet?"

"Not yet," I answer. The truth is, I don't have the monetary means to buy anything. Father says he'll scrape enough galleons before school starts, and it's coming too soon. But I believe he'll follow through. A Snape never breaks his word.

"Are you looking forward to it?"

"Yes." Then I shrug. "Sometimes."

"The books," he remarks. "You'll love the Library."

Yes, it'll be an improvement over the ruin of the one here. "I believe I will."

"So why only sometimes?" he asks like a nosy ghost.

I look at him and then glance away. I wonder at times if he can read my mind. He seems to know me far too well and yet other times it seems like he is just getting to know me. He's an odd one.

"I don't know." I scrape my shoe against the grass, smashing them into the ground. "It's going to be a big change."

"But a good one, I think. You'll finally make some friends your age."

I shrug. "I think friendship is overrated."

My ghost jerks his head and I see that he's more than a tad upset. Drogo really is too sensitive for someone who's dead. He should learn to control his expressions more. It's a disgrace that a pureblood wizard would be so undignified.

"Sometimes, in the times of danger and mistakes," he says softly, "you'll want someone who will help you."

"To ask for help is weakness," I retort.

"What if it is freely given?"

"Then that is worse!" I snap. "Then they think you cannot do things on your own! That you are incompetent, _incapable._"

He glides over until he's almost diffusing into me. "Severus, promise me you will at least try to make friends with some people. They really aren't so bad… if you try to get along with them. Don't judge them too harshly. You might regret it later."

I bend down and pick up a rock, throwing it as hard as I can. It only flies for a few feet before it plunges to the earth. I glare down at my bony, weak arms. I must get stronger. I must not let anyone see my weaknesses. I might not be tall or big, but I know enough curses to make any _child_ fear me.

"Severus," Drogo calls, "will you listen to me?"

I ignore him and head over to the part of the field where I've planted some ingredients I've been using in my potions experiments. For the most part, they're growing well—but some aren't doing as well as they should. It won't matter soon. I'll be heading away from here, and my plants will die.

"Severus," he says, "I have something important to tell you."

I want to tell him to go away, but I don't dare. It could be months if I say that.

"Listen to me." He deliberately pushes his hand through me. Cold air seeps into my body and I turn to him with a scowl. "Sorry about that." But he doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. Opportunistic ghost. "When you go to Hogwarts," he says and I feel dread creeping into my blood, "I cannot follow you there. It is… too far for me."

"But…"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and this time he means it.

* * *

_November 11, 1998 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 38)_

**Severus:** "Snape!" the irritating menace calls, as I hasten to depart after another meeting. The numbers of Order meetings have steadily increased until we're meeting every week, and sometimes even twice in a week. It means spending more and more time with the fools with whom Albus hopes to win the upcoming war with. "Professor, please wait. Snape… I just want to talk to you." But I _do not_ want to talk to him. Alas, the idea eludes his pitiful brain. "Will you hold on?"

How dare he take such a tone with me? As if I owe him anything. I've done my job, saving his life thrice over what his poor excuse for a father did for me. I've repaid my debt. I have no obligation to him any longer. He can take care of himself now that he is out of Hogwarts, and if he doesn't—I'm sure his friends will.

"Snape, _please..._" he pleads. It would have been more effective if he had not grabbed onto my arm at the same time. "I just want to talk."

I stare down at the fingers wrapped near my elbow. "If you want to talk," I snap, "I would suggest you let go of my personage."

"Only if you don't walk away."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Fine, Potter." He lets go and I cross my arms. "Now what is it that you want?"

He bites his lip like an uncertain child. In some ways he has grown up, and yet in others he remains a juvenile. "Why do you hate me so much?"

If there was a question to expect, that was certainly not it. Considering his ineptitude in the art of polite conversation, I am not surprised that he chose such a blunt opening. He still needs to acquaint himself with the decorum properly brought up wizards are expected to have. Unfortunately, his friends—the Granger witch and that Weasley boy—are hardly stellar examples of good wizarding backgrounds.

"Why?"

I level my eyes at him. "I think you are perfectly capable of answering that yourself."

"I am _not_ my father," he retorts. "You should know that."

I do. He is not his father, but it's the fact he has his father's blood that I find dislikable. Still he is not the carbon copy of James Potter I had previously presumed, and I cannot hate him as much as I would like.

"What is the point of this pretense at conversation, Potter?" There has to be a reason he approached, and somehow I know it's not because of this question. I hardly want to admit it, but I do know the boy's mind well. I had to, teaching him to be a sufficient _Occlumens_. "For I trust, even for you, there must be one. You might as well get to it. You are wasting my precious time."

Potter steps toward me. If he was a man more of Lucius Malfoy's height, I might have been impressed. Instead, by stepping closer, he only appears more beneath my gaze. "In the end of this, if there will be an end," he says, "it will only happen because we have a united front against him. If we can't work together, can't get past the past—then _he wins._"

He steps back and walks off. I can't help thinking that he's right.

* * *

_September 31, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry: **"How do you know so much about Unspeakables?" I inquire.

He blinks his ever twinkling eyes. "There is little that I haven't heard about," Albus remarks. "You always learn everyday, and I am a good deal older than you."

"You are," I concede. I would like to know how old, but it's hardly something to ask someone as old as he is. "But for someone who's only heard about Unspeakables, you seem to know a great deal about them."

"As you yourself do," he points out.

I feel my cheeks burn. "But I—" I stop speaking when I realize what I'm about to say.

"But what, my boy?"

My eyes widen and I wonder… "Are you one too?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Are you an Unspeakable?" I ask.

He re-adjusts his slipping frames. "If I were, would I tell you?"

No, and if he weren't—the same scenario—Albus likes that kind of ambiguity. He says it's what makes things more flexible, never giving clear answers until absolutely necessary. He calls it biding his time, and he worries that I'll never learn it. I wonder if he thinks of me as his protégé. If he does, he will be sorely disappointed. I am… nothing like him and I don't think I ever will be.

I'm not that amiably cunning.

* * *

_September 9, 1998 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** It takes me a few days to get un-queasy about the idea of me and Snape. Then I realize if I'm with him, that means I'm gay—and I look at Hermione, who is sitting across the table and laughing, and I wonder if she's unattractive to me. She's not repulsive and has certainly gotten prettier since she's grown up, though it's not like she was ugly before.

Ron pokes me and Hermione asks, "Why are you staring at me like I have two heads?"

I blush and avert my eyes to my fish and chips. "Sorry," I mumble. "Just thinking."

"Well, you don't have to apologize for that," she remarks. "So how's Auror training?"

"It's been great," Ron says and gets promptly smacked on the hand for that.

"I don't mean you, silly boy," she retorts. "I already know what you think about it, but I wanted to ask Harry."

I smile. Those two are just meant for each other, aren't they? I wonder if they've finally made it official. They did have dinner together, just the two of them, a few weeks ago when I conveniently decided not to show up. I always thought they would get hitched coming out of Hogwarts, but they haven't even gotten around to dating yet.

If Snape and I are together in the future, I would like to think that there's a couple like Ron and Hermione out there. If two people who hate each other can be together, shouldn't two that are crazy about each other be as well? I sigh and pick up a chip and pop it into my mouth. I must be gay. I slide my eyes over to Ron, watching his throat muscles work as he chews his food. It's not sexy; then again, I've never tried to look at Ron as more than a brother.

Ron has to prod me out of my thoughts once again. "Hey, are you going to answer?"

My eyes flicker up and I desperately try to remember what she was asking, but I'm busy processing that I have to be gay and I never consciously realized it. I try to think back to Hogwarts, trying to remember if I ever looked at a guy and thought he looked good. I probably have, but not in a sexual way. It was just, that guy looks nice today in the way that some guys always do, like Draco Malfoy. But that's not resounding proof, is it?

I crunch another chip. I must be, if I ended up with Snape. Actually, the kiss wasn't so bad. It's better than the one with Cho by far, and better than the few others I've had with others. It was sadly… the best kiss I've ever had.

"So Harry, how's Auror training?" Hermione asks again.

"Uh," I choke and have to take a gulp of water. "I'm sorry," I gasp and my cheeks burn. "I don't know what's up with me today."

"It's all right," she says soothingly, and I catch the way she sends a look at Ron in the sly. "The training's been going well, hasn't it?"

"It's been hard," I respond, forcing myself not to think of Snape at all. "But good. I'm learning a lot, and I'm sure it'll be useful for the future." I smile and push my plate aside. "So is the Ministry job everything you thought it would be?"

She returns the smile. "It's a good deal more restricting than I thought, but it makes sense. Changes will always happen slowly, and it's not like I can revolutionize how things are done instantaneously. But the way we integrate magic with Muggle technology really needs to speed up and be more efficient. There are so many resources out there that we can utilize for the better. I just hope it happens soon."

I nod and then just have to ask: "So when are you going to tell me you two are dating?"

Heremione's eyes widen comically and her eyes flicker to Ron as his does to hers. "Whatever makes you think that—oh, you prick!" she exclaims and from the way Ron yelps, I guess she kicked his shins hard. "You still haven't told him yet?"

I turn to him. "Told me what?"

Ron swallows hard, his throat muscles twitching. "I'm… uh, dating Luna."

"What? When? How?" My eyes go back and forth between the two of them. "I thought you two were like supposed to be."

"Why do you think that?" Hermione asks. "Because Ron used to have a small crush on me? And that he used to show it by arguing with me like a bloody nuisance?"

"Yes!"

Hermione bursts out laughing. "Harry, you're so bad at reading the situation. Ron has never had a crush on me. He treats me like a sister, which is why he's such a prat—"

"Hey!" Ron calls. "I resent the name calling."

Hermione shrugs. "Besides, Luna's perfect for him. If Ron and I were together," she says, wrinkling her nose, "we would probably self-destruct. I can't even begin to imagine us together. However did you?"

"But what about the time you and him were getting together, just the two of you? What about the time I left you two to eat dinner alone?" I sputter.

"Oh that," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "Would you like to tell him, or shall I?"

Ron's unsurprisingly red like a tomato. "You see, the two of us, well—when we were together that is… she was helping me plan how I was going to court Luna. Because, really, I have no idea and asking my brothers isn't any good. Can you imagine what the twins would do? Percy's such an arse, and Bill and Charlie are gone."

"What about me?"

If possible Ron turns redder. "I… um—"

"I think he just needed some advice from a girl as to what girls like," Hermione answers.

"Oh," I respond and then grin brightly. "So does that mean you and Luna are together?"

Ron ducks his head. "Not quite," he mutters. "We've gone out twice already, but I still can't quite pop the question to make it official yet. I didn't think it'd be so bloody hard, but… it is."

"Well… good luck." I slap his back in good humor. "Luna's a great girl."

"Yeah," Ron says almost dreamily, "she is."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Don't get him started about Luna this and Luna that. I've heard enough."

I laugh. "So what about the Chudley Cannons?"

She shoots me a grateful look as Ron eagerly switches to one of his most verbose topics. "This season they might actually have a chance to make it to…"

My thoughts drift off, though I occasionally make a remark to keep Hermione from having to say too much about a topic she's relatively ignorant about. But what I'm really thinking about is… I thought the two of them were perfect. And they say they aren't. And I never considered Ron and Luna, much as I never considered the possibility of me and Snape.

* * *

_October 11, 2006 (Harry is 26, and Severus is 46)_

**Severus:** "You stupid, stupid boy," I hiss at his unconscious form. "You had to go on that dangerous mission. You had to step in front of that curse meant for Weasley. You had to be the fucking hero.

"You're just lucky it was only a _Blasting Spell_." I reach out with my hand and touch his cheek. "What if it had been something else? What if it had been _Avada Kedavra? _You aren't invincible, Harry, and you should know that. I've told you often enough. Don't risk yourself unnecessarily! Don't go out trying to kill yourself! Do you understand me, you imbecile?"

_Because you have to stay here._

**TBC**

A/N: I really do appreciate all the reviews and it's just gives me fuzzy feelings to know people are taking the time to review it; after the effort my betas (who do through 2 edits for me) and I go through to get this out. Not to mention the hours it takes to write this. Thank you so much!

So any thoughts of predestined love? And what will happen?

Thanks to **Clodia** (Snape's always fun to write; he's one of my favorite characters), **Silverthreads** (), **Lisa13** (K thousand), **Khronos** (I don't actually have a life if you consider all I do is write fiction, freelance for a magazine, and take MCAT classes. I have the bad tendency to rank my stories based on readers/reviewers. Alas I have other stories that are much more popular and take far less effort to write), **Rowana S** (you should get a chapter you haven't read in the next go I think), **Dark Avalon** (nonlinear is bloody hard to write. I've done it thrice and I'm still struggling with it. Thanks for your review and I'm blushing if you must know), **darkess-knight **(Letting me know is a great thing), **toolazytosignin** (You're so wonderful to review more than one chapter at a time. Drogo/Severus/father is an interesting dynamic, I'll agree), **Carey Miles** (I think Harry's been an Unspeakable in other stories, but not quite like this. He seems to stay in another time period instead of switching back and forth), **Dragon Smile** (War's not an easy thing to write).


	7. Chapter Seven

**THE SANDGLASS**  
By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?

* * *

_July 27, 1971 (Harry is 19, and Severus is 11)_

**Harry:** "What do you mean it's too far for you? Don't you come farther from farther away than where Hogwarts is?"

I cringe. Perhaps, I used the wrong word—the wrong word by far. I should have known that Severus would never accept a shoddy answer like that. I should have known he would badger me until I gave a complete explanation. I might as well give it to him. At least, the version I'm allowed.

"The protection spells around Hogwarts make it impossible for a ghost that doesn't belong there to enter the grounds," I explain, catching his eyes and hoping that he believes this. "And also I'm not a very strong ghost."

Severus shutters his eyes. "Does that mean you were a weak wizard?"

I cringe inside. "Not necessarily."

"Then what makes a strong ghost?" he inquires. "I would think having lots of magic when you're alive would correlate to being a strong ghost."

"You know my magic theory isn't good."

"No, it isn't," he mutters. "You aren't much good at anything."

I dislike it when he gets like this. I'd like to believe he doesn't mean to hurt me with his derogatory statements, but I get the itching feeling it's precisely what he means. I hope it's only his father influencing him. I've heard enough from what he's said to glean what his childhood has been like. I think even living with the Dursleys would have been better for him. How sad.

"But still, it would be nice to have something familiar when I'm there," Severus says. "I don't know what to expect really. I've read _Hogwarts, A History_ from front to back, but while the knowledge of the school is there—it lacks the information about what the actual schooldays will be like. And… I am concerned what it'll be like being around so many children." He twists his face into a sneer. "Juveniles are so very irritating."

"You are young yourself," I point out. "I'm sure that there will be others like you."

"Perhaps," he says. "I hope to Merlin I don't end up in Hufflepuff."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"Because they're a house of rejects and misfits."

"You shouldn't say things like that without concrete proof," I admonish, feeling like Mrs. Weasley scolding her children. What an odd feeling, considering everything that will come. It's like I'm… the one who is forming him into who he will become. "It would be ignorant of you."

"Well, I'm not," he snaps. "I am well informed about the quality of those in that particular house. They almost never amount to anything worthwhile. Even Gryffindors do far better in life than Hufflepuffs do, and that's not saying much as those hotheads tend to let their emotions rule them when it's through brains and cunning that you really win."

"And how do you know this?"

"My father, of course."

I suppress a shudder. His father must be a delightful wizard. "Perhaps," I say, "you should reserve your opinion until you can see firsthand for yourself?"

"And the reality will probably be worse than the presumption," he remarks acidly. "I don't understand why you care what I think about Hufflepuffs or why I am not allowed to think my own opinions—"

"They aren't your own opinions!" I snap. I almost feel my face twisting into a frown. "They're your father's. Don't you think it's time you did some thinking on your own for a change?"

"Were you a Hufflepuff?" he asks suspiciously. "Is that why you won't tell what House you were in?"

"If I recall correctly," I remark with considerable control, "I don't even remember my given name."

He scowls, but reluctantly gives in. "If you had to be in a House," he asks, "which one do you think you'd be in?"

I wish the blasted metal file would warm up around now. It doesn't. I still look at it anyway. To my keen disappointment, there's no helpful advice scrolling for me. Bloody thing never works when I need it to.

"I honestly don't know."

Severus smirks. "I think I know."

"What?" I ask with trepidation.

"Hufflepuff."

_Funny_, I didn't know he has a sense of humor.

* * *

_November 23, 1971 (Severus is 11)_

**Severus:** It is miserable here. The only good thing is that I'm safely ensconced in Slytherin. Father ought to be pleased with that, I was selected as a member of the same House as him. And of course, I'm not in the House that my mother was in. Thank Merlin. If I had been, I shudder to think what he would have done.

At least the portrait is safe for now. I sit with my legs bent before me and stare above the headboard where I've placed my mother under the privacy of my bed hangings. She is smiling at me and she looks happier than I've seen her for a while. I try to smile and fail. I hate this place, this school, where I'm ridiculed for my used clothing and my wretched looks. It's even worse than the situation at home. Father mostly leaves me alone, but not the students here—not the Gryffindors.

My mother loses her smile, and drifts closer to the edge of the painting. She would say something comforting if she could, but her voice is still lost to her and I have not found a way to replace it. I suspect the necessary spell is located in the Restricted Section of the library. If I bide my time and get on a Professor's good side, maybe I'll get the slip that will allow me to enter with legal grounds. If not… I will find another way.

I am Slytherin, am I not?

* * *

_October 17, 1971 (Severus is 11)_

**Severus:** Someone bumps into me and I lose hold of one of the scrolls that Drogo gave to me for my birthday. I cringe as I watch it fall and hear the old wood crack. When I look up to see who has caused the incident, I see a familiar shade of red hair. It's _that girl _from Gryffindor. I don't even need the confirmation of her school robes.

"You clumsy mudblood," I sneer and bend down to pick up my scroll, jerking my hand back when hers almost touches mine. "Watch where you're going."

Her face turns red and her eyes are far too green. I can feel the anger in her, but she knows she's in the wrong and hands me the scroll she knocked over. "Sorry," she says and turns around to leave, but a dark-headed boy grabs her arm.

"Why should you apologize to him when he called you that?"

She shrugs and tries to pull her arm from him. I know who this boy is. James Potter. I've met him before, when my mother was still alive. She was his father's cousin. They were close because both were their parents' only child. But I have no wish to be friends with anyone associated with my mother. Father would not approve. I pull my scroll closer to my chest and start walking away.

"Snape," Potter calls, "you shouldn't say things like that."

I ignore him and keep going. One more turn and I'll be in Slytherin territory and he won't dare to follow. No one but one of us ever drifts down here to the dungeons. It is our sanctuary.

"Snape," he says, his feet making a horrendous noise against the stone, "apologize to her."

I don't have to turn around to know that he's dragged her to the border of the divide. "She was the one at fault," I spit out. "She should watch where she's going."

"You don't just call someone names like that!"

"Forget it," she says. "He's not going to apologize."

I tense my back. She's right. I'm not.

"You're just like him, aren't you?" Potter retorts vapidly. "You don't have a smidgen on decency in you. I have no idea why Aunt Cecily chose to marry such a dreary, horrible wizard."

"Potter!" the mudblood snaps. "Don't say things like that!"

I whirl around and feel my features twisting into one of my father's vicious glares. "My mother was the one that wasn't decent, dying on us like she did. You have no idea what you speak of, Potter, so I suggest you keep your moronic mouth shut."

Potter's lips twist into a smile that oddly reminds me of my father. "You are blind then, Snape. Your mother was an angel, and you—you are a devil just like that bastard. He killed her you know. He suffocated her soul until she died. It was _his_ fault."

I clench my fists and stalk over to him. It would be more impressive if the edges of my robes weren't tattered, bare-threaded. "My mother was weak," I hiss, thrusting my face up into his. I lack the inches to be intimidating. He towers over me, though he is no bigger, only taller. "It was her fault to die from such a weakness."

Potter throws back his head and laughs. "Your father lies to you, Snape."

I hit his chest and he just keeps laughing. The mudblood girl tries to drag him away, whispering to him that he's saying awful things. Untrue things, too. I don't see why she's still here. She should have left. This is only between Potter and me. It does not concern her.

"I think it's your father that is spreading falsehoods," I sneer. "The propensity of a Potter is to never see what is so explicably clear to the rest. You like to pretend you know everything, but what you know is only what you wish to believe."

"Potter," the mudblood calls, "we have class in five minutes."

Potter has an unattractive glare on his face. He leans his head down until we're almost touching. "This isn't over, _Snape._" He turns around, and a charming smile replace the ugliness. "You are all right, aren't you, Evans?"

"I'm fine," she mutters and starts walking away. "But you know, you're really no better than _he is._"

I see Potter's shoulders slump and I file that information away.

* * *

_June 11, 1999 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry:** "Why can't I be there for him?"

My Unspeakable walks around the triangle, pacing like he tends to whenever I'm saying something he doesn't agree with. "Do I need to answer that?" he asks instead.

I scowl and it probably looks like one of Severus'. "Yes."

"You cannot be there for him at Hogwarts. It would _change_ things too much."

"But am I not suppose to be a guide? To help him through life?" I inquire. "Isn't that my purpose?"

He stops walking. "You must realize, Mr. Potter, that most Unspeakables are never known to the people they are helping. Your case is an exception."

I grit my teeth. "Then what am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait until Hogwarts is over?"

"You will see him during the breaks when he goes home," he says. "And you may always see him at Hogwarts, watch him as I watched you grow up."

I blink. "You watched me grow up?"

He inclines his head. "Indeed, I did. How else would I know you as well as I do?"

"And I can watch him?"

"Yes," he answers. "There are times when you must watch him without his knowledge."

"When?"

"You know," he says, "you are much too impatient."

I persist with my question: "When?"

"But you are young, and you will learn that haste is not always the best. Going too fast when you should slow down is a downfall of many. You must learn it soon, and I know it will be difficult."

"I…"

"Listen to me," my Unspeakable snaps. "You _must not _do anything foolish when you are merely observing what needs to happen. You cannot stop what must be. There is a certain progression of darkness and bitterness that he must experience to become the man he is destined to be. You have no right to tamper with that."

"I know," I mumble. "You have told me this already."

"But you have been altering the future, Harry," he says. "Don't you know? Haven't you thought? You are interacting with him, something very few Unspeakables do. Do you not consider the _effect _this is having on the present? And the future?"

I swallow hard. "You could ask yourself the same question."

He throws his head back and laughs—I catch a glimpse of his shadowed face. It's familiar, yes, but too shrouded in darkness that I cannot make out any distinction as to who he might be. But something in my bones tells me that I know who is behind the cloak and hood. This is someone from my past, present, and future.

"Sometimes I forget how together you can be," he remarks, "and how a simple choice can change the course of the future."

"What has changed? From what choice?"

"You have."

I blink. "What? How?"

He starts to pace again, around the _tempus temporis. _"By a decision I made."

"Was it a good change?"

"I have no idea." He stops in the center. "But I know that changes are rarely good."

"Then…why?"

"Why did I do it?"

I nod.

"Because I was told to."

* * *

_December 19, 1971 (Harry is 20, and Severus is 11)_

**Harry:** "You weren't there for me when I needed you!" Severus shouts. It's odd to have him yelling at me. I can hear the anger in his voice, but it was done by tone, not volume. I guess this is living proof that Severus really has mellowed a bit with age. He is not quite as tempestuous as he was. "I needed you," he says with a strange note of desperation. "You should have found a way to come. You're a ghost, and there are ghosts at Hogwarts—you could have found a way."

I wish I could reassure him with my arms, but if comforts comes—it must arrive intangibly. But I know that my words won't suffice, not when it's been months and he is as bitter as he is. He wants someone to blame, and like the Severus I know… he shoves it all onto my shoulders. I let him stalk around me, burn some of his anger away. I know some time has passed before he sits down next to a tree and crosses his arms over his chest. When he does so, I glide over to him and hunch my body next to him. I don't dare touch him though. What good can cold hands do?

"Would you like to tell me what's wrong now?"

He turns his face away. It would be easier if I could feel the tension running through my body that my mind feels. It would a physical outlet for a mental problem. All I can do is sit and wait until he talks. I stare down at my hand and will the file to heat up, but it has been telling me less and less as the years have gone by. It's like I don't really need it anymore. But I do. I do. I'm only 20—well maybe 21, if you factor in the time traveling—I don't know what to do. I'm still too young.

"Severus," I say, "I know something is bothering you, and it will make you feel better if you tell me what it is."

"Why?" he sneers. "So you can realize how awful my life has been and laugh at me?"

"Have I ever laughed at you?"

He swiftly jerks his head toward me, his black eyes an abyss to lose yourself in. "They have."

"Then they aren't worth your time."

A tentative smile comes onto his face. "After all," he says bitterly, "they're only Gryffindors."

The hollow cavity of this form lacks the tightening that my real body would feel right about now. I want to ask him questions about why, but my hand burns and I look down briefly to see a warning telling me otherwise. My curiosity must be delayed. Not that I don't have an idea, but did his hatred really start this early?

"So what House did you get into?" I inquire. "Was it the one you wanted?"

"Slytherin," he answers, not sounding as proud as I thought he would be. "It's the one I should be in."

"Should be?"

"It's a Pureblood dominated house," he explains like I'm an ignorant being. "And the Sorting Hat said I wanted to prove myself, and that I would find that there. That the only house that was right for me was Slytherin."

"You also have a thirst for knowledge," I remark. "You could have been in Ravenclaw."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Perhaps, but I'm Slytherin."

"Congratulations then."

He hesitates. "Thank you."

**TBC**

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, it really does help. Thanks to opening up the hits, at least now I'll know who's not reviewing sighs. Ah well, I can't get anyone to review. A bit depressing to know actually how many people don't care to review. So really hugs all those that do review. You're really special and encouraging.

Thanks to Amaris Kincaid, toolazytosignin, **darkess-knight** (Well, Harry was already softening up to the idea of Snape as a person, friend before he was hit with this knowledge), Lell, Lady Lightning, **Silverthreads** (it's also very difficult on the author), nljfs.


	8. Chapter Eight

**THE SANDGLASS**  
By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.  
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

Time is a tricky thing,  
It ebbs and it flows,  
Where it goes, who knows?

* * *

_February 14, 1972 (Harry is 21, and Severus is 12)_

**Harry:** Surely it would not be bad in his first year. Surely the others in his year are too young to be cruel. Surely it would not be as bad as that memory I saw in his pensieve. I take a breath and whisper the spell that makes me invisible to all eyes. I then step onto the school grounds. It's impossible, I believe, for anyone from anywhere at anytime to breach the anti-Apparition wards. It's a good thing. Or else Voldemort could use a combination of time-turners and _Apparate_ to attack the school.

But it is inconvenient. It still takes time, even when I have the ability to glide, to get to the front of the school, which looks the same as always. I hesitate before going inside. I'm not exactly sure what time it is. The file had only told me the day, and what spell I should use to make my presence a secret. Other than that, it had been as useless as always. From the position of the sun, I guess that it's morning. But it is before or after breakfast? Has the mail even arrived yet?

I take the chance that everyone's still in the Great Hall, even though I don't see any students walking towards it. It could be that class has already started or that breakfast is well underway. Either way, it wouldn't hurt to take a peek in to be sure.

It's useful, I have to admit, having a spell that makes me a ghost and invisible. From what my Unspeakable tells me, it's the standard repertoire of spells that field Unspeakables must know. I'm glad he has previously demonstrated the spell before, though he could have given me a heads up that I would need it. I know the file told me, but saying it twice doesn't hurt. Reminders can be dead useful.

I slip through the door, careful not to bump into anyone—because the only fault of these spells are that while I might not be seen, I still feel very much like a ghost. Once I'm in, I notice the sound and bustling of children eating and talking. I smile. It's good to hear carefree conversation. It's been a while since my Hogwarts has been like this, at least two years. Though fifth year wasn't exactly pleasant, compared to the subsequent years—it was certainly less tense and strained.

I notice the red and pink decorations straight away. They aren't quite as festive as I remember Hogwarts being, but then again—we live in different times. I can see most of the students are holding up their cards, and it looks like everyone got at least a few. Even the first years. But when I drift closer to the Slytherin table, I rescind my earlier observation. Clearly, not everyone got one. Severus didn't.

And he's not exactly hiding, but he's got his head buried in a book. I grin when I notice it's a potions book. He's probably reading it for fun. I snort. I'm not too concerned that I don't see any mail around him until I see his eyes slide from his text to the opened Valentines next to him. It's hard to see from the angle I am at, but I'm sure I catch wistfulness in them.

Somehow I never imagine Severus would ever want such a gaudy, childish thing. But I remember how I used to yearn for such things when I had gone to Muggle school, wanted someone to give me a Valentine with candy. Dudley always made sure that didn't happen. And while the older Severus I know might not want such things, it's not hard to see his child self yearning for this.

And it's an easy wish to fulfill.

I have to be fast though. The plates are clearing, and soon the students will leave. If it doesn't get delivered now, I will have missed my chance. Luckily for me, the metal file gives me no warning. It always tells me when my silly ideas are bad ones. But it does nothing now. It must be all right.

I drift out of the Great Hall and furiously make my way to the Owlery, where I find a dumpy old owl—an excuse for tardiness—and beckon it. He is only too happy to have someone paying attention to it, even if it's an invisible someone offering it a treat I snagged from a student I passed heading here. He takes it, fluffing his feathers when I conjure a Valentine. I whisper into its ear who I want it delivered to. He hoots with enough enthusiasm for his age. And I tell him to make haste… and he flies off.

Somehow the blasted owl manages to beat me back to the Great Hall. I get there just in time to see Severus' face almost glow with happiness when the silver envelope is dropped in front of him. He eagerly takes it and opens it. He has barely even read it, when an older Slytherin—I don't recognize who—grabs it from him and scans it:

"It seems Snape has a secret admirer," he sneers. "And he goes by the name of _Drogo, _a ghost. How ridiculous. Did you send this to yourself?"

I can hear some of those that are nearby laughing, but the rest are a bit too far to hear. The Slytherins all have amused glints in their eyes, unkind and devious. I had always wondered how they treated their own, and now I know. They're a vicious lot if you aren't strong. But in a way, it must have made Severus strong enough to bear anything that is thrown at him. Even Voldemort.

It doesn't make it any easier for me to watch. I want to throw up spells around Severus to protect him, but the file heats up in my hand with a warning. I don't want to glance down at it to see what it says, but it's insistent. I look down. _You have made things worse by meddling. _

Then why did it not warn me against it?

As if it can read my mind, it flashes and says: _Free will._

Bloody free will.

* * *

_July 7, 1972 (Severus is 12)_

**Severus:** Only a few more days, and I will head home. I know Drogo will be there, waiting for me. I glance toward the trunk, at the bottom of which I have safely kept the only owl he sent to me. It was nice of him to do so—to remember me. I wonder why he hasn't sent any others. Maybe he knew that once was enough. I'm sure it was hard for him to even get this one to me, if the pitiful owl he used was any indication.

I miss him, though I'll never tell him that. I tense my jaw when I feel my dormmates come up. For the most part they ignore me. But sometimes they want a bit of fun, and who better to ridicule than the poorest student in Slytherin? I'm probably the worst off that's attending Hogwarts.

I grit my teeth and tense my body. Today, like the day before, they ignore me for getting ready for the school day. I guess with the end of term coming up, they don't have much time to focus on me. They're so busy being real Slytherins; they haven't kept up with their work as they should.

I smirk inside. I know their parents won't be pleased if they go home with anything less than good marks. They may not be Ravenclaws, but Slytherins certainly aren't the dunderheads that Gryffindors are. I swallow hard, not that Potter and his crowd realize that. They somehow do amazingly well in their classes despite their tendency toward pranking.

I hate them. I hate them so much. Damn them all.

* * *

_October 13, 2006__(Harry is 26, and Severus is 46)_

**Severus: **Finally, he is stirring—arising. I remember to scowl when his eyes flutter open and he blinks several times until he realizes that no matter how many times he does that, he won't be able to focus on my face. He holds out his hand and I give him his glasses.

"How long?" he croaks.

"Two days."

"Shit."

"Yes," I agree. "You are still too impulsive by far."

I get the feeling he would shrug if he weren't under a heavy dose of paralyzing potion. Normally, it would not have been used, but in recent months he has developed an odd reaction whenever he takes a pain-killing potion. His body would shake violently. The only remedy is paralysis. A strong dosage at that.

When he's conscious, he makes the choice to just bear whatever pain he's in. But when he's not—we have no other option but to make sure he's comfortable. Who knows if the pain would be too much? Only he does, and I get the that feeling he suffers through it because he knows he must. He cannot afford to become addicted.

"My Gryffindor qualities will be the death of me, you say."

"It will," I hiss at his attempt to make light his injury, "if you aren't careful!"

"Severus," he says as his hand seeks mine, "you worry too much."

I sneer at the idea of that. "If you don't live, who then can we expect to kill the Dark Lord?"

He laughs a little then coughs harshly. I reach and rub his chest until he stops. "Nice try," he says in a weak whisper. "But I don't believe you."

He closes his eyes. "No more potions. I'm fine."

I say nothing, but I know he's not.

* * *

_June 17, 1999 (Harry is 18)_

**Harry: **"I understand," I say. "You've told me I was never to interfere."

"But you already have," my Unspeakable remarks, tapping his foot on the symbol of the past. "By becoming a ghost, you have interfered with the past. And you have met a future Severus, interacted with him. You are actively intruding, but as long as you restrict that to only Severus—it will be fine. But for others, you cannot do anything at all. I would recommend not meddling with Severus' life there as well. It would be in your best interest. Do you understand?"

I smile a little. "I'm going back to Hogwarts, to the past, and I get what you're implying."

"Good," he says. "Then go and keep your promise."

And I will. I will.

* * *

_September 17, 1973 (Severus is 13)_

**Severus:** She's struggling. Even I have to acknowledge that it's odd for her. She might not be the best student at Potions, she's fairly mediocre—but she isn't usually _this_ terrible. Considering how late she walked in, late enough to have to be my partner… something is obviously up. She looks like she's been crying. Maybe it was the returned owl she received this morning. As soon as she saw it, her shoulders had kind of slumped.

It isn't often an owl was sent back. Something like that might happen to me, but it shouldn't happen to her. She's the girl everyone seems to like. Potter certainly does, I think with a sneer. He keeps glancing over, probably to make sure that I'm not tormenting her. Unlike him, I don't have to sink to the depths of immaturity. I can manage to be civil as long as others return the favor. Drogo would be proud.

He would be even happier if I helped her. My innards twist at the thought. I am being decent enough by not calling her a mudblood and sabotaging her potion as some other Slytherins would have done. But I know it would thrill him even more if I give her a hint as to what to do next. I'm still tempted just to do the potion alone and get it perfect. She wouldn't learn much, however; she would learn a little. And it would be much easier than instructing her…

"_If you only made the effort," Drogo had said, "you could have some good friends." _

But it's not like I want to be friends with her! She's a mudblood, inferior, and worthless. It's unfortunate that Potter's infatuation with her has elevated her level. I see no reason for it. I find him—to my rampant disgust—far more appealing than she is. Her hair is an atrocious red and her skin covered in those freckles is ghastly. What is there to her? I would hardly think Potter admires her for her brain.

"Snape," she whispers, "please help me?"

I grit my teeth. At least now I don't have to set the foundation for the bridge. She has nicely done that for me. For a good reason, I can see. I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a calming breath. Thank Merlin she had not put the beetle legs into the potion yet. She would have destroyed the thin stability it currently has.

"You want to add the bee wings," I hiss, "not the beetles."

"Oh," she says and pulls away the legs. She grabs the wings and I grab her arm before she can add them. "What?"

I release her hand as if she is a botched up potion. "You need to gently tear them up." I pick up one of the wings and start shredding it along the structural lines. "And don't go ahead," I snap. "You'll only make mistakes."

"But I don't want you to do all the work," she says softly. "I want to do my part."

Unlike some, I think, glancing to the table to the far right where Black is doing all the work for Potter. Not that Black is that good at Potions, but I suspect if he's doing most of the work—he must be far superior to Potter. I smile inwardly. It would be nice to be better than Potter at something. He and Black are far too good at magic, considering how little they work at it.

"Unlike them." She inclines her head a little to Black and Potter.

I grumble, but I let her do her part.

* * *

_August 19, 1999 (Harry is 19)_

**Harry:** I'm whistling when I walk into the phone booth that will drop me down to the Auror level. Despite the frustrations of trying to get Severus to be _more _than a colleague, I'm having much more success with his younger self. Actually, I like him when he's a child much more than when he's an adult.

Oh yes, he's bitter. But he's still got enough youthful earnestness to combat it. He still tries to follow the advice of others rather than turning away and doing his own thing. He listens to me, and I know how hard it must have been—to be nice to my mother. Yet, in a way it makes sense with the progression of things.

If Severus had been as awful as he had told me, when he'd been complaining about the mudblood, I don't know why my mother would have tried to help him against my father and the rest of the Marauders. If they had a working, _student-to-student _relationship, then it doesn't seem so unreasonable.

I almost run into Ron when I step out of the booth. "Sorry," I say. "Am I late?"

"You're about to be and so am I, if we don't hurry."

We both break into a fast walk, nearly running. We manage to get to the meeting area right before the warning gong sounds. We share grins, then wipe the smiles off our faces when Moody walks in. He doesn't stalk around with a commanding stride like Severus, but his rigid gait does the job in hinting at his strict demeanor. Imagine if he actually had been our Professor… we would have been in for a drumming.

Moody taps his wand against the wall and a map appears. "Dark magic has been spotted in these X-ed locations," he says. "Field Aurors have already been there to check around, to make sure everything is all right. But we need people on this, working to figure out why these locations are being targeted. It seems random, but _I know _and you ought to know, that it cannot be. There must be a reason, and we must figure it out.

"And having a few defense specialists on it, I think, would be highly recommended. After all," he says, his eyes flickering toward me, "you might comprehend why these locations have been handpicked for the Dark Mark. Perhaps, it aids in some Dark Art rituals?"

Ron narrows his eyes slightly, noticing the way that Moody's singling me out. I think Ron hates it more than I do, the way Moody is always focusing his attention on me. It's increased since Auror training has ended. I don't really understand why. Is he afraid of what I can do? It's almost like he expects me to turn out to be like Voldemort, a powerful wizard gone bad, and he's just watching for the signs. I can understand his concern, in some ways I am eerily like my greatest enemy. But there are key differences that he should realize. I am Harry Potter, not Tom Marvolo Riddle. And I will always be just Harry. I do not crave power; I never have.

"The Senior Aurors," Moody remarks, his eyes shifting toward the man and woman standing next to him, "will debrief you as to the situation. You will be split into small groups and then head out to the locations. Investigate as best you can the reason why. Understood?"

The defense team, the Aurors I work with day in and day out, all incline their heads respectfully. Ron and I are no different. Sometimes, I think Ron only chose this division to be close to me. But when I remember how well he did on his Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWTs, accuse him of choosing something he's not good at just to be at my side would be wrong. He's good, of that there is no doubt. But I can't help thinking he'd have more fun being a special ops Auror. At least, he'd be out and about rather than stuck at a desk researching anti-curses to new spells some ingenuous dark wizard had created.

"Potter?"

I bend my head even lower, remembering to keep my eyes glued to the floor. "I understand, sir."

"Good, then I will leave you to your superiors."

He walks out, and I know that was directed specifically at me. Just when Snape is almost civil, I get someone like Moody. Merlin—I run my fingers through my hair—sometimes life is just ironic.

**TBC**

A/N: The reviews are wonderful as always, but I wonder where all the 350 hits go .

Thanks to Dragon Smile, Sed, **Clodia** (You know the outcome, but what about the "how"? I find the "how" more fascinating than the outcome. The Unspeakable isn't random. As for ghostly form, it's hard to tell when someone ages just a few years much as it's hard to tell in real life if you see the person fairly often. Time in the past doesn't quite move the same in the present. About 3 of hits actually review), Aycelcus, **GarnettVII** (It's easy to give up when no one seems to read it. Fanfic authors don't get paid, so the reviews are sort of like the paycheck), **Vampire Queen** (don't think too hard, just read and you'll understand much better how the story goes), da+blksaiyangurl, Silver pointe, Lady Lightning, Silverthreads, abby1006, **Iaurhirwen** (thanks for the reviewing and brownnosing, it tends to work).


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